For Every Tib and Tom Cat


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.

Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

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