For Every Tib and Tom Cat


41. grotty

we saw Plato or somebody in there yes

chagrined that the phenomenon disappoints:

through a translucent fault line

inexorable chimeras were supposed

(amid the uneasiness of other presaged bagatelles)

to usher some salubrious tides

tenuous glowing signifiers

that should’ve exalted our enviable sensorium

should’ve focused our mind from the root

of earlier predictions to suggestions of imaginary time

lit with layers upon layers of aesthetic ghoulish nonsense

true that some of the stranded corpuscles

testifying to the shrill omission

seemed here and there to limn untimely disharmonies

a paltry crystallization of fruitful eccentricities

a few coils of lavish blithe saucy smoke and so on

but it must have been all in our heads

the cave meanwhile was turning into some makeshift ocean

the worst worn spots unwitting spigots

from where the clumsy wheel of unflattered fate

vomited the awful disarray of eviscerations

scum from suddenly swollen athletes

that exploding ceased to circle

around the depraved circumstantial slaughterhouses

grown instantaneously like poisonous toadstools

and that now were disgorging

with priapic skill and mock gentleness

a crapload of luminescent surely corrosive brine

plus the sound they made copied

that of a scabrous enough moving of the feces

or the macabre scattering of other lachrymose stuff

we saw then not the brittle windfall of insolent sundogs

and triumphant forces accelerated

in a sick shortcut to the pristine origins

but a wreckage of crippled imps

shaky inklings at the bottom

through the clouded flesh of the surface

an irretrievably zoo of buffoonish forms

a crude amusement of indignities nestling pell-mell

in a fog of antipathy

the firewood too clammy

even the wooing crickets and bats rendered lethargic

but not the mouths of the filthy scions

the regimented chiliarchs

oddly following still their dull pecking order

compelled now to exude rueful unsuccessful avowals

of profligate goings-on and a rotten insanity of murders

cataloged in a momentous staccato of squeals:

“we were yikes evildoers

fearmongers unscrupulous swindlers cutthroats

insidious scathing eye-gouging assholes

the plights of fringe martyrs left us

neither surly nor agitated nor weak-kneed

not even numb just awash in opulent blood

in egregious remorse we confess

insatiable qualms and deathbed renewals

the wellborn bonuses sinecures

made us nutty heroes

touchstones to the handsome counterpoints

and confidently hygienic charitable lavatory surgical

as we were the lightning-rods of all the malignity

ripened our fatherlands thanks to those shabby thrills

we provided for the multitudes

we were conspicuously deluged with foolhardy approval

by all and sundry and regardless

braving the horrid bloodletting we wisecracked

with glee and tenacity

breathe brethren breathe

while we broke a few spines”

the faster shimmer of that last loss

the panicky epistolary crisscrossed glimmerings meaning zilch

the juxtaposed stilted constipated sarcasm of the resurrectionists

the risen murkiness turned into a fervent summary

in the last hundred broken manageable initials

uncials and all

of the disjointed mechanics of what we were never really weaned of

the stampeding fragments

the inching waves

the wounded bristles

the thunder receding as we receded

tactfully tiptoed to the left of the stage

no convictions required

forget about all that stomach-pumping

escape trumps truth

our climactic recession all in all a wonder

of posthumous digression.

Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

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