For Every Tib and Tom Cat


19. trouble at the cage

Wrong passport

First I hate crowds

Second I hate lines

Third I hate bureaucrats

Trite trolls ensconced in their clotted quonset cabins.

Now the times presses

It is becoming too late

The runty fairy takes my passport

I make a few remarks

Notice that I could’ve move ahead with the notables

And the other shitty v.i.p.’s

But I’m one with the people..
Hate prerogatives and privileges you know

Must be mightily pissed off by now the damned spook

Too tired with stamps labels countermarks that kind of garbage

Nonetheless he fucking takes his time with my passport

Don’t he.

When the syrupy hours elapse my head collapses on the counter

I take a few exhausted winks

The mob thins

The din subsides

Somebody else – a lowly woman – elbows me

Hands me the passport He had not enough

Space (leaves) (pages) to affix his afflux of notes


My passport all smeared with multicolored provisos

And mainly with insults innuendoes questionings

Plain frontal assaults regarding the state of my sanity:

I’m not only crazy I’m also dangerous

I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere for a span

Of more than a couple

Of closely watched days – and at the least slip I should be committed

I’m frothing with anger

If I’m so crazy mayhap I’ve got a license to kill the turdy

Son of a bitch...

Only that he’s out to lunch.

I’m pacing outside at a loss now

I’m sizzling inside

I’ve got to destroy that fucking state (state of things) dares deny

My rights and moreover officially makes a walking disaster

Out of me.

I’m boiling mad

Roaming without a clue

Even bathed in the afternoon zephyr

I’ve been rumminating along that narrow street

A tub

A tub precariously balanced at the edge of the curb

Placed to be picked up by the garbage people soon due

Gets a furious rear kick out of me

It comes loose

It rolls down gathering speed

It will crash into traffic

It will cause chaos and mayhem at the crossroads

Against which the ally abuts

That’s why I’m running down some handy side street

I see the sea at its end

A marina where in floppy idleness the well-to-do

Use up their last one hundred sixty-two days allotted

To live.

How am I to mix unnoticed among them?

No sweat

First let’s cross the torrent separates me from their tasteless luxury

The torrent skids down along the solid rim

I’m running on.

It’s all sham

Decoration put on

The open sewer goes to the sea

Near the sea it gets canalized it sinks into a culvert

Under the flat pier it seethes

Under the flat pier above which I’m walking nonchalantly

To mingle with my worthless peers.

Am I too conspicuous

Too conspicuously a branded crazy

A patently non-allowable...

Who’s to say?

Can’t I stroll also with a certain flair flaring my nostrils

Lifting my head tilting it so and pinching my lips

And tut-tutting myself

My image on the shop windows

Faking it maybe a mite too much

Not that anything ain’t faking

On the contrary all fakes in a fake setting

It’s all bunk all bogus

All show off...

The dying (and the living) taking place always elsewhere

I’ll melt all right

I’ll melt and wait for the coming smelting

Where I’m bound to fall also in a few

More escapades

At last going in full consent with the current

With the current down down

Another dead smelt borne by the smelting.

Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

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