For Every Tib and Tom Cat

divendres

they started drawing with their scalpels thin lattices












fuliginously silhouetted against the penumbrous corridor, she tells me: a swath of lit Möbius strips arose around my discarded clothes as the doctors made me strip... I saw the obstetricians eagerly hoard some of them... as if those twisted strips were any worth to have or relevant at all anent their diagnostic criteria...



later, they tarried, mumbling amongst themselves... as I showed obvious signs of discomfort... they pretended then to already get to work... they started drawing with their scalpels thin lattices... thin bleeding lines on the random fields of my exposed abdominal skin... ellipses mostly, they drew, oddly enough... the axes of those ellipses generated, with the gathering blood, shiny carmine drops that now looked like cones, now like cylinders... or else, as vortexes or spirals now... all the topological surfaces... somewhat polarized... painful medical procedures, all told, that... I found no clue as to what purpose they were having... I wanted to raise my concerns about... the whole set of shenanigans the doctors were engaging in... their tools, for instance, normally used in garages in order... in order to mend automobiles... my brain activity... showing now signs of utmost stress... my reflexes less automatic than... you... might have wished for...



expressions of extreme disgust were, I'm sure, facially appearing... not only facially... also on my whole façade... shifty shades... shifting summits of scowling... of snarling... of nail-baring... subtly demonstrating that... I was perhaps desiring the death of the butchering bunch... they though... kept trifling with my innards... damned interlopers... talking meanwhile their pusillanimous garbage... bland pablum for the abulic... all my bodies in a state... sieged by piddling anomies... nothing to write home about, I thought...



suddenly... a shout arose from the archaeological ruins of my forgotten self: "get rid of the fucking fetus already and quit immerding around...!"



their paws spastic like those of a constipated dog while dropping hard tiny turds on the unyielding ground...



then the blustery blowzy peroxided nurse... massaging with long-drawn nails my anus... she said: it improves your range of inner vision, speeds up nerve movement, increases air flow through the bowels... all of these boost your ability to either battle it out... or give in and compromise your survival rate... the individual organism, whose adaptive value is well known amongst the more cognitive of scientists, fears naught beyond the biological...



are there onlookers up in the dark bleachers of the operating theater...? why is she become another arcane signaler...? keeps on wincing and prancing toward the missing audience, I notice from the corner of my right eye... she says: behavior of this sort suggests that the amplitude of both distinctions is one of half a degree if even that much... so, though it matters a lot for the individual's survival, it is on the other hand neither beneficial nor pejorative in the broader world of social and non-social phenomena... (a dimension to take into consideration and nowadays being thoroughly investigated...) that the woman shed or not the evolving parasite that replicates at a furious pace inside her most kernel-like membranes... she mutters against herself... her prattle includes miscues... she's said too much... "the evolutionary mystery of why neuroscientists ultimately fall in bulk prey to the same manias they try to extricate from their patients... are findings that will have to be disclosed at a later lesson..." the surgeons are about to trample her... her heels all scrunched-up already... floored and minced by military boots...



she flees, crying... her sensory functions impaired by the pain and the shame... she doesn't go far, though... dives head first into the whole body magnetic thingamagick... the scanner... whose whizzing and burring betrays its extreme irritation... inimical device, whirring... from idle gone to hysterical gone to insane... "positron turbines..." "raving mad frequencies... hopping on the spread spectrum..." the scanner fries your brains... you always come out, if alive at all, mentally diminished... she probably deems she deserves that kind of cleansing...



lame aphorisms are being tossed about my head... I'm laid out over the moist warm table... my body a swarm of trapped bees... and outwardly innervated with new abnormalities... them buzzing... green-cloaked buzzards feeding on carrion... they kept on jawing, nasally, about spontaneous mutations... rare syndromes... brainstems branching out... I was cool... observing it all from above, unconcerned...



once, twice... here it is again... I remembered the sensation I had being born... I say: here I am, at my birth again... time and again... those trite ephemerides... nonetheless engraved in my old brain... are they, the rummaging intruders, reviving the old groove...? I guess they must... it lends credence to this supposition the fact that I'm aloft yet unsupported... whereas down below... a woman's legs are spread... and a battalion of hands are ramming in down the broken doors that lead, raggedly, to her all higgledy-piggledy torn, tortured, womb...



I squirmed... the bed was creaking... ominously... battalions of crooked, prickly, ripply hands stampeding inside Elzi's bodies... a-quiver, I tossed the quilt; I stickled pugnaciously between the sheets... how to unstick them... took umbrage with the whole layout... rocketed the bundle against the wall.



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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