For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dijous

suite



* * *


proudly, a malingerer



yes, sir
while others toil and kill
I flirt
with the pretty
nurse.




* * *



quietly fading




a wisp
borne by the
zephyr
from the mirror
to the ether
as a
speck of dust
spilled
from an empty
vessel
that now reposes
upside down.




* * *




there they are – the thinkers




the eggs or the icebergs as self-referential creators
brooding until rupture and upburst,
until capsizing and splitting,
kneeling the keenest once the idea,
spunk spilled on a mirror,
gels.





* * *





now sag the flaps



of rough tender scary flesh,
flaps that ought to be
ears,
noses,
dewlaps,
eyelids.




* * *



how benightedly horny,



how ravenous the heartache,
and foolproof the enduring traits...


and then
how they flew – all those squandered
years
of thoughtless youth.



* * *




ah on the news the flashy tinkerers





notching another one for “peace,”
drunken hulks of sobriety
slowly putrefying,
each flap of flesh breaking loose, or rather cashiered
into a netherworld
where their only
line on the long shirred paper
hissingly burns.



jilted monsters now,
their sweltering spunk
spilled on cue
into the notches stung into the frayed fabric
they themselves helped unravel.


sinewy thugs quaking in filth then
to whom now someone sings dainty eulogies;
quite handy with the awl,
and the shiv,
and the screwdriver, they used to be,
every jolly Jack a ripper.


damned
into eternity, a stink that shall
float about the quavering dry parchments
of the smellers of carrion, the history
buffs, so-called.







* * *

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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