For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dissabte

another end of the world at early mass with the insidious depravity of dust...











a mob of outlaws... the hilarity... clustered together... breaking taboos... the nastier most ferocious species... frenzied, bewildered, stricken with loathing... loaded... sated... with hatred... their psycho pastor wallowing in adulation... announcing with smooth rudeness preposterous ruin for those that don’t comply literally enough... oblique traitors, their cupidity is usually attributable to the agony of the impeccable infamy of the abyss their vertiginous calamities hurl them in... glacial degradation of their faith in apocryphal arguments when they peruse superfluous haphazard speculations that elucidate nothing while with forked tongues the anathemas rebound around from the walls of their circular prisons... are they themselves frantically shouting...? or those whose shrieks roaringly resound belong to the bestial watchers in their heads...?



what the hell are we doing in church, Lezi...? I hate churches, those ratty leaky quonsets where all is agony... each time again is early mass in another packed end of the world... with the insidious depravity of dust knocking at the armor of your skin...



there’s the melting moon pouring milk on the breasts of the mountains, Elzi... another dawn with cloying wings of sorrow dutifully burgeoning...



felt assaulted every time by the same damned irreversible hallucinations of toothy wincing flying animals orbiting the pecky insides of the shallow sphere... how many times as another overspilled ditched orphan I’ve wept underwater...! while the obsolete unfathomably ignorant magicians, well-manured toads all of them, feigned their dirges and litanies of unbearable scurrility and hatched their deathbed diagnoses as serpents with a foul mood (that one would have avoided above all if at all unpushed by cursed disciplinarians) their malignant eggs of pestilence... a butterfly, crippled, like a taciturn blob of slippery bleak debris, loitered thereabouts, and then was aloft and... it sped, it horribly sped... round and round, like a jet, an airplane with all those rear tubes afire and smoking... and its earsplitting throbbing made me shout and therefore taste the bitter cane and the sanding and hammering of the underhanded blows... where do I start...? “shut the fuck up!” (he murmured, the nasty guardian, and he was pinching my thighs and backside to tears... ravished by orgies of meandering hideous lame dull ordeals...) farther to the left the cute grocery store clerk slept through the proceedings... recently unfrocked due to... too rash mood swings... his mind under strobe lights through gauzy dice... irascible contortions on the tremulous screen... he’s venting his spleen like a blasphemous firebrand... and now he’s insipidly reciting hagiographies idiotic beyond contempt... here he would lift a lizard’s lid, wink, separate his hands over his fly: his cock would fly up to the ceiling... he looked like a degenerate athlete... with saucy truculence... he was unfurling his white gloves as if they were sheets on an inviting bed... his cock, never shriveled, had fangs and a frightening dead eye... the gloves rustled... antsy skittish heady, I saw myself deflowered by a whole shark... its smooth pale skin... milk of a scarecrow under the microscope...



churches, Elzi, I know... we hate all the evil deviltry they represent – gods and saints and intercessors and the rest of the silly figurines – dry shits, turdy coprolites in the shape of malignant imps... promiscuous statuettes, what are they good for if not spying on our intimacies... infectious dildoes often enough... but, hey, say it unabashedly: from idolatry to dolls – no gap – same thing... meaning: idols and voodoo dolls... ha, too funny... “let’s pinprick scour afflict burn harm hammer the hand that hammered them that didn’t belong...” and then... those damned erasures where the secretional spermatorrheic stigmata used to show...! I thought we had relinquished all rights to a sylvan saccharine voluptuous look ahead of desolate ravings in the brazen marquees of heaven...



we had the inbred premonition simmering in the semidarkness that... among the corny slugs bathing in bureaucratic flatulence on the pews, the swarms of yeasty greenbottle flies ran amok... crabbed nagging dreamlike, they hovered like a magic wand whose heterogeneous rusty frailty spelled remorse and distrust... the grocer’s scut gallantly cried in blessed fulfillment... while my heart, pierced by the sharp tool of an obtuse insect, crept, unfurnished, along epochs and chronologies with one spot inside the rank foliage always shining through, though, as if a thaw, a glacier, grew in the middle of the interchangeable jungles... under my skirts a puddle of sown seeds grew... my knees uncloistered... precocious, my singed cunt flew with therapeutic juices... I had turned the tide... my handkerchief looked rather like a tablecloth after some productive debauchery... musks of the slut... furtively, I stuck it in... slouching, I moved toward the lavatories... the senile giggles, the pernicious aphorisms, the sententious disdains, like a raw pneumatic fat mudworm followed me along... pointless rows of random traits on rows and rows of accidental faces... I staggered on, unknown... plummeting, as if drunk, down the sheer descent... a well of pimp scents and mired grimaces...



slurps ill-omened like a gut glut gloating – every virus, deadly – the flood of the faithful, specky, woeful, unfettered flak of twerps peppering the murky landscape...



the chalice held wine! I was thunderstruck! this, hoarse said the priest, little girl, is the piss of Christ; and you be a doll: a special doll with bones...! we were, I remember, on top of the vanity coffin... the hearse scene had been really nightmarish... up the footpath, the filth and the roots and the loose rocks... gave it an ugly rhythm... it had to topple... the jade couldn’t regain its composure... fell like a lump... the coffin broke among the turds, bees by the thousands escaped from the corpse... damned foreigners; irrelevant, inept, and devoid of shame – the priest swore... and your name, little girl? – he said, wiping my ass. I said, moved by my cartoonish fancy: “Publicilla.” Publicilla, mm, he said to the crucifix, listen, that child’s a whore, and she’s got the name to go with it too...



we’ve come – she sashays – to relocate Satan’s minions... in our evangelical state of grace, the frayed negotiations we’ve lately had with... hospitals, outhouses, nuthouses, jails, armies, bordellos, and cemeteries... have yielded nothing but unsuitable subtleties, mostly the morbid fees of regurgitation... we are within earshot of the yells and slurs and shudders wreaths and birdseeds and barren confessionals (where violence brews, not solace) eject or like stinking effluvia sputter... If the mafiosi disclose their crimes here, why not also the shrinks that would have us shamefully committed...?



what about god who sees it all? – I said, astride the splintered coffin... god sees all...? – he said – and better still, little girl... why what is good for god to see would ever be bad to be seen by its creatures...? especially its special creatures...? the body is the mirror of god – god did the bodies in its own image – so, if you see a body that god sees as good, would you say you are sinning...? how silly could that be...? rogue musings, I thought... “tinkle yer bells when any illustrious naked worm passes slithering under yer deluges or sprinkles and other spittings...” he sang, and the fundamental beauty of his ballast made my eyes thrill... never again would I regret the stagnant gaiety of the castrati... spurred, my throat, wiped clean of phlegm as my very ass, let a fanfare of royal loyal mirth ring to the hilt... the sundered skulls of such cockroaches enhance and heal the flaws, scars, and sundry feuding bumbling borrowed gasps and gulps plague the stupid innocent... their lugubrious fangs inject joy cheer courage... I never went back to the stench of the pews and their shriveled shabby carcasses...



delayed again the onset of the ultimate blaze... the end of the world... a topaz belly startled into a magnificent fart... that clarion fiery scintillating... by the way, did you swallow, Elzi, all of his load...?




Never so well

Never so well
nyac!

Inosculated

Inosculated
anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

La meva foto
C.R. Morell his paltry efforts,

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