For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dimecres

Cat Alone -11-









May 3











A grainy film on the screen. She walks roughshod all over him, she, the proud owner of a cunt, which had so long held complete sway over him, a surrogate dog, spooked, nodding, obedient, irrelevant. She needs only, so it seems, breathe skillfully, a heavy panting, and an abrupt doomsday of weird reveries installs itself upon his subjugated mind. Mm, upon my word, so help me. Anyway, no matter, what I mean is same case with me...I shudder at her whims, her successes and exploits are her teats, her ass and the holes therein, gloriously slimy, but when she demands more whiskey and gloats at me, the lousy callused shattered flesh of her parasitical slug, the rotten lip of truth is that, drenched gladiator ready for hilarious action or not, she gets on my nerves.



Here she is now, on the stinking bleachers, at my side, at the dog show competition, wide-eyed, absorbed, and me thinking twice at the morbid idea of having those furred shits on four legs displaying their pimp-like abhorrent wherewithal; plus so help me all those faggots and all those creeps surrounding my endangered sanity; dogs or gods, ogled at, doggedly; I’m chuckling at the ordeal; looks of disbelief fry me, ardently jumping, sizzling from all around.



–Sorry, an optical illusion, I say (lame excuse) to my wife, I imagined one of those pudgy thugs that drive the droves of non-verbal four-legged goons had had her coarser hormones skyrocket of themselves just at this fragile instant where the show barnstormily peaked and the grueling aftermath of so many cells bristling and abrasively melting was a rampage of vectors gone urgently and urgently into the most dismal and nocturnal toil, I mean, shouldn’t they tweak the spectacle a little so that at least the two-legged bitches don’t strut in rhythm and concert with the dogs? For I’ve seen them naked under the tight dyke bundles they wrap themselves with, and believe me, my crimson grin outstretching, they wouldn’t win any prize, lest the prize should be, mm, upon my word, for mirthless bigotry, or primal jingoism.



Severe, stirred up, saber-rattling, sinewy, the pithy athlete, my wife, sanguinarily, unremorseful, glowers my way, and then she smiles heavenly, of a sudden her decent avatar most deceptively summoned.



–Qi Donzell! She screams delightedly, for she’s seen, behind my hexed ectoplasm, the ominous cop Qi Donzell, another traitor to his class (instead of killing the owners, he tortures his own.) What are you doing here also, I didn’t know you were such a fan! Superb, isn’t it. What a thrill, no friar would burst with more scarlet tumefaction in the presence of his crammed full, richly lactating vineyard, than we with such lovely strip passerelle of otherworldly creatures!



She moves with him. When she did I also rose. Always loath to meddle in lovers’ fierce sparrings. Someone liable to blow a gasket in the hornets’ nest, and then what...? A hecatomb of hornets, I suppose.



Outside, far from the wretched gawkers, twilight. Plastified droppings were falling from helicoptered candidates. Such fadoodle even from the sky. Man! I forthwith left the tainted surface and became troglodytic. The subterranean funfair lithely grew in bulk. Unquenchable I blossomed, deeming the turmoil a glittering jar where Pandora still was plumbing her schnauzer as a rat in a cesspool looking for yet unraveled goodies.



Lax and in passably fashionable rags, my autonomous structure traveled amongst the toying mob. Unadvisedly, so help me, I collided against the steps atop which, upon my word, a narrow plank lay where a zealous painters’ crew perilously perched... The band of brush-wielding brothers were sedulously replenishing with thick glutinous carmine putty, and until farctate, the carved scars a recent tough struggle, featuring shop-owners vying with pistol-wielding fools, had punctured plus cryptically punctuated on the boards over the freak circus where the barker, or outside magnet, wheedled for attention. I showed with discreet signs and mischievous beckonings and eye-movements and gestures and whatnot to the drudgingly enmeshed, now chillingly scarred, scowling and spidery painters the fondness-craving, complicity-seeking, empathy-embezzling barker, a misshaped dwarf. The painters threatened to quash the foiling clown, who had no subterfuge to show for on account of the fact that he didn’t even know what the fuck everybody was furthermore demeaning him for, all in all still more clueless and humpty than before, poor guy.



I saw him sulking while regardlessly, all unburdened, I was leaving the amusing scene, in search of more variety. Which I encountered elsewhere.














Forthcoming attractions – mm, that iron fist over the subversive cocky eager beaver who smirking picks up the phone – the stripling swells curdled with scorn in the sardonic asylums – the seedlings raked over the loam by orderly handsome Albanian peasants – the shrugged-off fanciful obscenity over the frazzled resilient corpse of a crone dying with new tribulations – the coarse eagle perched on the sprouted heavens where the cowboys’ naked horns after all always fail to reach – the adventure of the wife with the broken halo: “Through the fucking of your wife they are fucking you, and that’s your pleasure: their fucking you...” – white nerves drafted like assumed serpents under the shroud where the shriveled protoplasm, feeling hortatory, glosses on, plenty coherent and never weirder than a politician promising a newer plan – all those ethereal tatters, turbatrices and terebellas, swimming in the empty eye that thaws in the next fortnight. All those glamorous forthcoming attractions, I say, due in the next fortnight or so, take the edge and the itch away, sure damp my wishes to see the less fiery attractions of today.



While I’m checking the gaudy posters, there’s this fruitcake moving with sloth, rubbing shoulders, and what is he whispering? “I pledge allegiance to your balls...” Women wept I remember when they heard this inane declaration, slightly amended perhaps; an orchestrated compunction swelling up out of a lump of livid she-crocodiles brimming with the unspeakable diseases; and there they were, dead or alive, the military boys, never a confederacy of genius by any standard, so help me, out or in from or for another crusade, where the targets abounded, the distresses brewed, the weapons reigned and all-out brigandage was the rule...



The fruitcake’s withered occiput betrayed an occult abscess, the folds of his ear beshat a staid helping of toad gunk.



–I don’t belong, I said, to the hysterical unfucked, don’t shatter under neurosis, don’t vanish every evening in the varnished doldrums, the sprockets of my throat don’t get raucous in the middle of the solitary night like a starling’s by a kestrel stricken midway while the Sun occludes itself in melancholy funk...



The fairy tells me, and he’s not wrong at all, that I am nothing but a sorry insipid wisecracking nonentity. Bully for him. I never aspired to worse.





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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