For Every Tib and Tom Cat


33. Better uncounted, unaccounted

Count yourself out

Count yourself out

or would you rather be another bloody darkening figurine waning in that short night?

You see

power has it seems this mandatory flaw: it’s always falling into the wrong hands.

Only violence solves that grievous problem.

But the powerful kill for less than nothing – a mere stir in their cup of tea.

And don’t you dare intrude into their hunting grounds.

They’ve got on their roster all kinds of cool killers called cops

and judges

and priests.

They pay them not too much but enough.

They – those murderers – are told how necessary they are for the well-being of all

how what they do is approved by society and “god”

how it is society’s and “god”’s bidding they accomplish – this the more gullible are told

though there are plenty among them who are not easily fooled

and do the authoritarians bidding with full knowledge of cause

with a clear conscience

deeming – they do – that that’s their lot

that if their actions are just aiding and abetting the owners’ rage

so be it – life’s too short to bother splitting hairs too thin and so on.

Should one include the stupid minions of the press among the abettors?

But of course – cops judges priests and propagandists: the subservient operators in the gang

they do the dirty deeds

just as told – they are just following orders – the orders must be followed

the word is...

the world must have order and law

law and order – their daunting task is to maintain the fiction

that law and order bring justice

when in fact they bring peace sure enough behind the ramparts

to the powerful

those whose hands are wrong

their hands are poor and tremble – too weak – unsteady – at fault –

and must shoot

must shoot fast or...

must shoot before the opposition

who has a much better hand and is a clean hand

has a chance to play – the winner must be killed beforehand.

The loser gets the power – it falls as from the heavens into his wrong hands.

The violent the aggressive the choleric the psychotic

the dispossessed who perchance would want what’s coming to them

here – I tell them – for I’m their doctor –

you’ve got two ways to go about it

rebel and murder and get shot – get even for a speck

a very ephemeral speck


That’s what we do here

We reward guys of your particular type with free television sets!

Unbreakable armored unwieldy and inviolate.

With an unreflective screen – for we don’t want you inside

or believing that you are yourself inside: that would really be sick.

We tell ‘em – too eager guys of your type

ready to shoot and get even and so on

we tell ‘em: “It’ll do you good –

vent your anger against it

shout and bang at it

and shoot the fuckers inside.

Shoot the fucking figurines that swim inside

all those cops judges priests propagandists

the patsies of the powerful.

I know

it makes me a lot of good

it helps me vent my anger


it keeps me alive

that fucking unbreakable television set I’ve shot so many times already

looks like a fucking colander

with all those disgusting dark dead fishes inside

go ahead



32. let the street be for whoever walks it

let the street be for whoever walks it

let the street be for whoever walks it

the road is steeping up and my father used to be a great decapitator

so if you got a problem identifying heads by all means ask me

I’m not even tired and the cars parked at the side of the road

damned rusted wrecks if you ask me

I avoid as the devil

so slight and wired and muscular and fast and lissom

am I they bother me none

and if you ask me all those children still alive should be

more or less safe in some kind of refuge

I don’t think any of them is capable of such devastation...

so much destruction

the beheadings and the mayhem

are the fruits of a horde if you ask me

some alien horde that passed this way last night

as nimbly and rapidly and buoyantly as me

I’m passing up this street

kicking heads like flighty balls

and scoring each time with each trick.

Step aside creep

step aside

care not a whit for the spirits of all those hederated heads

I’ve swallowed hairy hurdles bigger than those

of omens forebodings maledictions from the thrones

from the heroes from the nagging bureaucrats

the ludicrous prestiges of the rhetoric-choking pundits

the baggages of elderlies and other degenerated sovereigns

the tremblings of sentries

the blunt steel of audacious fetuses

the rocketry of moot civilizations

the toilsome tread of monsters and antediluvian beasts

let me swither about something else

the void for instance

those blithely stabbed bodies

and then their heads rolling like burdens unbearable

the aim of the intruders

of that I am devoid of ideas


I know who did it and how

but why


but why

that I can’t fathom

perhaps my dad the old decapitator could

but now tough luck he’s dead.

I love the wind

the swifter the better

lifts the girls’ skirts

and with them my spirits.

Let the road be mine

their genitalia such nice whiffs

such dainty chemistry I’m agog the thingamabob hasn’t been used more often

as an ambassadorial tool of magical proportions

so many close shaves so many pins and needles

agonies vexations griefs

irksome undertakings

could have been avoided

nothing bestows peace as cunts that are clean and eager to please.

But now I’m approaching my target

sob little ladies for the lifeless beaus

I’ve got more and to spare smoldering in the lessen caves

where the prisoners were kept

fists and claws dulled and enfeebled

sob sob


while unavoidably the circle widens

while I harvest in unease and bathed in afterthoughts

the fuckers of tomorrow.

Let every walker claim his share

stake his won piece of sphere

call his own the street he walks on

and as he deems right

over his hard-earned ground let him rule

that’s how wars are won

and let’s hope for the wind

the swifter the better

as I sift every trace of reason


as I sift every trace of reason why

and the wind teases my sifting

and perhaps sends it to lands unconquered

of little consequence

lands where my reach won’t land

my scope won’t span

my span won’t reach

for I’ll be sleeping the sleep of the just.

Nothing to be done

but to stake my claim

and stick each head above each stake

while the ponderous thinking gets done

and my running’s still viable

in bursts of sudden joy

as I kick the heads

as I score another goal

between the stakes planted

by the others.

The others

the horde of alien others

whose heads I see rolling of themselves as rotten fruit

down the steep road I traveled

once upon a time

and it was me

it was me damn it was me

who told the investigators I know who and how

but not why

for I had the experience

my father was the old decapitator and if you ask me

I can tell you

only that then they said: Pass!


31. the fourth man now

By-passing the onslaught

The first man forgotten

discarded at the side of the road

the second though relentlessly behind me

burnt to a crisp

a filthy piece of brittle coal and yet behind me



intent on “getting” me.

I went up to him

such a sorry sight now

burnt to a crisp

burnt by the sundry conflagrations from the many traffic accidents

fiery crashes he’s been involved in

plenty plenty

by now plenty indeed

and roasted by the sporadic bolts of lightning

and stained black by the smokes of the heavy trucks

and him undeterred

without compunction

nothing doing

as yet as hipped as ever on getting me

and thus whirringly

annoyingly rolling behind me


a bolt-blighted scarecrow

a hurricane-trashed dummy

perfunctorily preposterously


mounted on a rickety plank with scratchy castors underneath

his knuckles crumbling on the pavement

and insisting

a doomed damned maniac

on getting at me

on getting me.

I grew fed up with the bowel festering and the stomach rot

of having him all the time stuck to my ass

a saw-toothed rat gnawing at my ass

persecuting bothering stalking

stabbing wounding infecting

went to his cripple’s cart and

kicked it

threw him skidding into the middle of the road

let the heaviest speeding truck get him

smash him once and for all.

I had taken his monomaniacal pursuit at the beginning as just a joke

but now it was telling on me

I was jumpy

not myself

a wreck

I said: I’m going to the cellar to get some more wine

but instead I became the fourth man

I disguised myself and escaped through the kitchen door

into anonymity

into fucking anonymity

far from the other men...

Dressed in a tight black disguise

as if burnt to a crisp

I ran into the night

and he nowhere to be seen

perhaps still with his burnt night-black face

intent on the front windows

peering inside with the dead holes of his eyes

and the hunted haunted third man

left nervously imbibing with the guests

and joking emptily

and fussing with the goodies on the table

and watching his back

watching his back all the time.

Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

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