For Every Tib and Tom Cat


Cat Alone - 7 -

April 29

My eye plump on the sweepings swept away, trying to hold onto a few of the memories as the construction crumbles – stalactites fragmenting, smashed smithereens, thawing fast.

Somehow I always knew I had to be dead by the time I was 53. When I survived myself, I also knew something was wrong. The tentacles of death grown awry. Wrong move, unacceptable. (Askance, I peered at the Sun: a black blob – in mourning for the run of things gone askew.)

Old writer, he had to elope into the wild. “In search of one’s fate” (or something of that tenor.) Or what else? Or what’s left? Or lest this be not done now, thou art left faltering, or thou fallest, or thou art already the corpse tossed into the dark eager mouths of the fishes at sea... A muddle in my upper deck. Sailing along. Words sailing along faster than myself... They had to elope into the wild waves... Me left behind adrift at home... Peering at the end, the last evaginations, the last gleamings... Can’t make out the horizons... Report of rebellion on the upper deck: a shambles of old voices, skurrying, in a jumble.

Lost in a strange nocturnal city. A hum of voices, at a dark station, indeed. Earthlings perambulating the decks: sheeted specters. Strange bumps along the robes. Numb among the horny, my tentacle instead reaching nowhere. Discomfort brought on by such vast discomfiture. Alighting heavily on my left ear, a conceited voice, speaking alone. Rather to a smooth pillar, soiled at its base, befouled, a rank odor over-enveloping the raconteur.

Wife erased” – he said. “Alas, she never realized she was but a cartoon... Too eager to orgasm time and again, she was asking constantly that I rub her: Harder, Roy, harder...!

The thrilling subplot still developing, soon awakening far faint echoes in my labile conscience. Sliced athwart by a sudden splintering noise. Unflinchingly I peered at the blinding light of the engine: omnivorous. Even the paltry morsel of me, appetizing enough for an engine that is as ravenous as... The one approaching at such unconscionable speed...

“Boarding, all jerks” – word of the joker: truthful. “Boarding, all fakes.”

Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

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