For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dissabte

Through the dances to the stillness



Through the dances to the stillness









Murky world.



Walking in a park adjoining my home

I’ve found some stamps

That now abruptly somebody deems valuable

For with his son he is obdurate on recovering

Them from me, though I maintain that I never

Found the fuckers.



They say they’ll fight me to death

They’ll burn the house down

Kill all my plants and birds

Unless the stamps are handed over.



Which stamps…? I walk along the park

With my stick and I try to keep the path

Clean by sweeping under the brush the unseemly

Garbage, what do I care about little squares

Of gaudy images…, and I’m armed anyway.



The dance, I say, shall be jolly if ever undergone

Once underway a hoot no doubt

I see it already: such hilarity.









Murky world.



And last year’s wash is still hanging outside.



After I’ve tried as well as I could

To hang up the long wet carpet

Today I retrieve last year’s washing on the line –

Your lingerie, my suspenders, and so on…



Roils the cold still air the passing tramway

Where our last trip shall commence

I can make up words of rhyming verses

With the rhythm of its claptrap-claptrap advance…



The jerky witty dance indeed

Is underway in my head.










Murky word.



After the eviction

Following the crisp roads

Toward the mountains yonder.



With my sky blue motorcycle and a mattress

And some deep blue pillows

I’m trying to make it across the country home.



As I’ve stopped to replenish the bike’s tank

And with a quick sandwich maybe my stomach

I can’t keep an eye both onto the mattress

And onto the bike itself.



After a moment, as I’m chewing and looking

At the sunny courtyard

I notice that the bedding of the mattress

Is all gone: the topaz sheets, the pillows

The thin brown blankets.



There are customers on pillows, true

There are resting workers

Lazily stretched along the shadows

The building provides

But I’m gaffing continuously

None of the deep blue pillows

Upon which they lean are really mine

I’ve got to apologize every time after my query

And in a good-humored way.



Sounds of the same music again.



Again the joyful but ludicrous dancing on the court.



Murky world.



On with the farce

And the arrival again postponed.





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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