For Every Tib and Tom Cat


36. tacky fingers and all

As I exit toward the light

does it show – is it too obvious

my distaste for swarms anthills...?

cast out outcast

filtering the saccharine garbage

the parochial sanctimonious fecal prurient rampage

of snorting blurred shapes

that scabrous ambiguous lurked.

the angry giggles that snaggedly flowed from the dumb assholes

the toiling maggots underground

their meaningless jottings

their pinguid pigments splattered on the pungent spice of the floor

as they shuffled and shuffled along

chatting and chatting no end.

also the girls – their wombs

their wombs – uttering those excruciating screams

of weeping sarcasm against the teeming crotches

and then the blinding objects foolishly deemed to protect them

those bogus wedges athwart their transpierced chests

them chorally groaning against the weight

of so much unuttered script above their thoraxes.

agape and thrall-less their sparkling cunts

crusading in a barrage of squeals of blasphemy for the ultimate victory

of their outlawed god.

breathing hard now

as my polished cock boldly thaws

all their icy scorn – layers upon frozen layers

accumulated over centuries of forced burial

and accelerated spoilage on bended knees

shivering for fear and...

for fear and cold

crushed on the corners

on the corners of the underground.

fiercely bombed

we fought with our backs against the ceiling

listlessly wooing disaster

tottering tortoises of a doomed world

speeding toward an exploding sun

but no

our wills won – here it stood unscrambled our ceiling

our dissipated traits

as though after a too protracted orgasm

collapsing into the faces of gargoyles...

they muttered first and then openly barked

fingering my marmorean face that “I’m too willful
” the censorious women

rebuking my stance – their udders steadily pawed during the alarms

now deflated by safety.

no longer dazzled by their meretricious beauty

chug along worthless rake

and lift your cyprian eyes toward the exit

from whence the sky hangs...

for there’s nothing else for you to do down here

now that the bombs have stopped and the women won’t pawn

their replenishing vitality for a bit of skillfully provided venting

of their jammed triggers

the haven has sunk to the sorry sight of levels ordinary

I’m too bored with normal people

this subterranean setting

formerly if fleetingly so exciting now lacks all...

has no...

lacks all kind of enticement

has got no lushness and no...

goading nor spurring nor

I came out of the bombed tunnel

ran shrill the cats – no longer awed and silent

and I had left my dad dead

leaning on a wall of the subway

he had become suddenly incoherent

talking about almonds – his rambling phrases

how it was not entirely proper to eat almonds in bed

the gnawing the sticky crumbs

I realized he was dying – I had opened my questioning mouth

he was looking at me without a trace of recognition

and as I went to hold him he was already dead

a lump leaning on a wall

with the oblivious women crumpled all around

yearning for hands

for thirsty eager hands

and me slithering

a cat silent and industrious

to a fault...


35. wept the wind

So easy then slipping into the smooth

Behold at the mirror the executioner

or else stay

behold instead the bookish fellow

as he shuffles his way down the plank

or is it up to the gaping gallows

or flat and bumpy to the shooting wall

or is he laid already atop the dying scaffold?

He was certainly happier while he wrote

(what nobody ever read).

He sees himself again

a haste of paws

tentacles from a morbid vessel yearning for voyages

the guts of the compass rose rose to face the storm

the guts spread


nasty exposed clams

whose catagmatic glue the melancholy drift can’t keep other

than asunder.

Magnetic were the slumbers

in the idle darkness

exhausted regrouped the airy martyrs

whose corpses such cravings

erstwhile all exhibited.

Crudely folded

the sails knocked about like papers swept away

squealing against the ambush of the winds


Fading into the lower depths

while the hypnagogic voices wailed

no hindrance spooky enough to

with its writhing tentacles stop

the everlasting intrusion into the...


just jottings” – the bookish fellow tells them –

the darling swirlings of the smoke.”

To death he clung

in dark forebodings of death sunk

forebodings of death

to whom he clung

dearest friend above all

above all his imaginary friends

in broodings sunk

doom loomed

dumb womb of his hammering head

his teeth ached all the time.

Why the heartache?

people die all the same

such matter-of-factness dying


brooding fiery diatribes

in soliloquies that were damned morologies

by dint of sheer will

in his ultimate pyre burned

while flung by wind-swept hands wept the wind.


34. amoebic

a dearth of stamina in my pushing

for want of pluck

I’ve been abandoned

and now I’m also lame

and the two fat women pity me

and the effeminate artistic boy

is concerned that my letter-box never resounds anymore

with the dropping of anybody’s missive

and I’m told furthermore that the landlord is after me

his intentions angrily plain: eviction

eviction for my debts.

lack of funds to want of pluck added


a sorry happy go-lucky marginal nobody

out of me.

with roughly sixty percent of my organs still in sync

I tell myself: you bastard, enjoy

enjoy your freedom

nobody else around can say the same:

abandoned lame avoided evictable

never now all those lunarian flights postponed

what a wealth of health

still to spend

aloft and elsewhere

where the storms are less fierce

the women never run away

the removal of tawdry veneers as easy as a flush of clear water

the obnoxious flairs of the knowledgeable easily dispensed with

and afraid, afloat, the several objects strewn by the roaring waves

the wind buffeting hither and thither the tacky superfluities

the moons and satellites hilariously bumping into each other

the whole wreckage such fun?

Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

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