For Every Tib and Tom Cat


3. loathsome


longing desperately for something mucous to cling to

(while kicking the bucket where the acid foams.)

goons again ferreting me out

the lackey whose hickeys and nail-trails and bleeding rib rubs were self-inflicted

a crow plucked by strange hands

from the hat rack of whose fruit

whoso tastes retches and gags.

on the verge of falling prey to the motherfuckers’ grasp

a disruption at the brisk epicenter of my awful dream.

I had had short ejaculations whenever I awoke

I had yelled: Mom, mom, mother!

I had screamed: That’s it, that’s it, I’m dead, I’m dead!

legs of a prawn a cricket a cockroach a scorpion a spintrian crustacean

whose feelers he tweaks with the vaguest of notions

picking up and in depth

the splendidly jejune sonority of the shimmering night radio waves

he stops awestruck

riveted by the unbearable pedantry

that masks in vain

what nonetheless the thick fart-impregnated air is really pregnant of

the patent destiny of nothingness

that awaits the whole of the crew...

he can’t sort out the truth

from the slush

the spree of sly crimes signed by the escapees from the criminal asylum

echoes of ripe celluloid

the entire psychotic panorama maims his (the spintrian crustacean’s)

and my (how would one call it


his crustacean legs and my eyelashes interlaced

copulating having... intercourse...?

quit gloating at my astonishment I said.

subtle robberies

no guns allowed

just fiddling with the money machine


walking leisurely along the alleys of the park at night

later reading at home

lithe or petrified

peonies shattered or were they incrusted crystals?

off-piste the enthralling pearls of meteorology

usher now the lewd wrecks of a hypnotic reproach

my featherbed where we the shmuck rot

on file the trial and tribulation

of that night

soon blotted out as were the preceding ones

where the gnomes and their wry satchels (of weak goo made)

fluted away vanished

leaving behind trails stern evocations

of the furbishments of the esthete whose thorn at the side

it is to flash the sizzle of past nights

splayed spliced in the conflicted high jinks of tonight.

everyone of the enjoyers and sufferers the same stand-in for myself

a remote cynical swaggering accountant (of grim mush made.)

chronic gloominess

untimely crutches

of the armed bureaucrats knocking downstairs

or rather smashing the door

turned up to slaughter the soft maids of my dreams.

faintly linger the qualms

my accountability of the last crime looming as a monument of steel

grown from the ground up

as a baleful cenotaph

no wait!

it is inhabited a mausoleum

vast where I’ll awake and vouch

to holler more sparsely...

the bulbul flees from my embrace

while a moistness spreads.

am I crying?

have I shitted myself?

aren’t you yet fed up to shack up


with the oozing corpses of who you were?

there’s no greater virtue than to yet be inosculated to yesterday

razed village where only the blabbering slavering idiot obdurately remains

I answered

inanely again sighing relief.

Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

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