[Reigian Studies.] [On behalf of the baroness.]


Faithful executor

Orestes’ faithful executor

[After the suicide of his second wife (when at the beginning they
thought he had murdered her in Bangkok,) the obtuse Thai committed
him to the “sanatorium” – a ward for crazies in one big jail, where he
remembered the quasi-equivalent treatment (insulin-induced coma
plus electroshocks) he endured as a youth in Lleida. Here a poem he
wrote at the time. And a day of his diary where the executor (me) is
intuited. Notice the “algolagnic” of both contemporaneous pieces.

Orestes was a (social) climber, an avenger, a guilt-crazed wanderer;
through him women lost their power – contrariwise, through Reig
(witness Travessa deserts,) they would’ve won it all again.
Orestes was the one that first fought against a flock of sheep wrongly
assuming that they were the enemy – (later, lesser writers stole the
episode for themselves); he died by the venom of a snake that suddenly
bit his prick; his bones were stolen by the enemy (the enemy is not me;
the enemy are the damned castilians who would appropriate to
themselves Reig’s works, same as they have been stealing the works and
belongings of all the Catalonians since the latter lost their vast empire;
even retroactively the castilians steal: you’ll see everywhere references
to Llull, Lucrècia Borja, the Almogàvers, etc. as bloody castilian (or
named by the still more repugnant insult of spanish.) Reig abhorred
official “history,” obviously such a heap of lies. And his only sin (or at
any rate the ugliest by far of his sins,) had been having unwittingly been
born under the fascist castilians’ invading boot. He never set foot in
spain; never spoke their dreadful lingo. From Catalonia he went into the world.
He never had to purge his pangs of conscience for he never actually committed a crime.

His crazy-ward diary deserves publication – with the baroness’
permission I could do it even myself. The fragment I reproduce should
serve to titillate the reader’s palate.]

An attack of

Presently, just another groped faggot in a flop

Should I choose the grating ventricle of remembrance?

(Cozy ventricle where to gambol, all.)

I shall stray into clockwork and try to hack it.

Pussywhipped orphan grown acerbic.

From weakly to bellicose through the threptic hectic.

(Damned nuns of the algolagnic virgin!)

Bristling with wriggling mycelia where the smarm also brews: frothy.

The hairs on my useless pubis pulled: side effects most disheartening.

(Never a snitch, his truculent braying turns the dawn askew.

The torture: the “bromides” plus the bromides, and he sleeps, deeply;

Devils appear in the middle of the dark: injected with insulin;

As he wakes up, the paralyzing belts tense, taut: the muscles of his

Explode, escape and soar, foraging in a hurry across the smoky

Where his huge eyes also pop out, and the upthrust of his tongue

Obliterates the pieties from the morning radio the chemists listen at.

Swarm, propitiatory, his blasphemous, obscene words: brazen

Seeking the heat of the fallow virgins – pomps smashed,

Abolished with glee, the gory outweighs the coital

And vice versa then – until the sticks strike.

Recoil his snakes back into the ventricle of his hollow chest.

Rejuvenated by a shot of sugar, the eclipse scotched,

The beleaguered architectonics of his stamina from the larval

To the voluble: a dour dizziness, and again enfeebled,

Breaking rank, too tame: “Another shot of serum before I vanish,

Please.” Dreadful vivarium: through the sheer, see-through hindrances,

Their cold insect eyes, assessing the loot.)

Freed by age from the histrionics of servitude,

Bereft of heritage,

In acrobatic gratitude,

Priapic I disrupt

The nauseous pieties of my oblation

To the narrow-minded manitous.

“That hard-won accolade, stuff it,”

I spoke, haughtily, while spiking

The vain ceremonies, and flew,

Glowering at the props: the gypsum

Idols, the grotesque masks, the mute tombstones.

“Limber up, you dead statues,” I shouted,

As they loomed darker and darker in anguished grief.

In my rage now grown adamantine

I became the resident iconoclast while hinting

All the time at my beautiful horizons

Where, groomed, soothed, smelling like a rose,

And interlocking with the real, refined, intellectually

Aware, manumitted humanity

That now gooses me without pity

Until the burst,

I would surely thrive, a bumblebee

Tasting the buds of felicity

Until the bursting of the flowers,

Floors indeed strewn with flowery spreads

In marvelous fatuous sickening patterns

And the man, naked under the flowing purple skirts,

Passing, passing, passing... A stone.

Treading on the flowery patterns and shitting

A bituminous turd.

“Talk to your own demon – the distance is

Easily bridged.”

(In custody, the prisoner shows no animus

Against authority; he’s been arch-regimented,

He only needs a guiding prick. His outburst: nostalgia

For his happy times as a ward of the church and the state;

A bit out of sorts, breaking rank with the ventricle:

An attack of solitude.)

[And now the page from his 1989 diary.]

Yesterday, the twentieth day of my

___________________Ahir, dia vintè.

Com noliejares el joiell que ella portà a aital viatge on ell se la cardà més
de cent camins, només en dues setmanes, i que tant l’enderiava —
shiny choker, pèndul amulet — i ara el duus tu, i també al coll,
d’on hom et pren per carrincló i “estranyet” (ço que trob prou bé, les
femelles comcal s’abelleixen d’ens aitan “inofensius” i alhora quan cal
tan “penetrants”…) — nolieges un bisbe de qui ets el pus assidu culer.

Aitant el cartens, consirós, aitant l’has cartingut, i aitan
esmeperdudament, que si mai se’t feia rebec — ço és, no maldava prou,
en albirar una dona — i molt pus, ah, en ensumar-les (ep, ningú
sinó algú qui tragina amunt i avall un foradet si fa no fa humit
) —
per ço de ras anar-li darreret, amb l’ull si més no, i adu belleu sisvol
beneir-la a l’insabuda amb qualque gotellim de lubricant pre-lleterenc,
fins al punt que — pus que no pas bisbetó bavadís — apar — niat en un
llepís de secundines — litopedi entre bromeres crustàcies — alficòs
podrit, de qui el formatjós vernís ja traïa bombolles de paràsits —
érets reu del col·lapse, marmessor d’Orestes, qui delmà el regne,
amb fàstic immens, de pansides anguiles
— ton pare de malnom ja
li’n deien en Calçotets d’Arena — i ara son fill — l’assassí suïcida, duler
ultrasol·lícit — se li sacsa la memòria i torna a aquell meravellós estiu
de l’any tretze, on durant gairebé un dia sencer, tot el jorn i enllà de la
meitat de la nit, mare i parella (a qui pleveix d’ençà d’aleshores un odi
indivís, i amb elles a llurs companyes de forat humit) barement i
eixorada el cobreixen i desoneixen — i llavors homòdromes,
simbàtiques, orgasmant a l’ensems camins i camins — i camins i
camins… — el cobreixen d’un saliveig de verí sense vaccí fins que
irremissiblement l’han buidat, disparèunic — algolàgnic gos-a-dir —
perineu sempre umflat, com mandril.

Patir, pobrissó, raiet, car quin trascor…! Si carda perquè carda… Si se
n’està, se’l menja la fal·lera i es jaqueix rosegar els botons pel boc amb
penellons perpetus a les ales dels oronells, on la sentor tragitosa de
dona se li encastava de per vida…

Tostemps ensuma, adu entre les múmfules de les nits hivernenques, on
para i rau l’eruga qui a calç de qualque flairosa pota és a trenc
d’envair-li el ramat…

Xst, quin cas. Perquè me li volia de per riure fer amic d’una querrina —
la qual saludí, janglaire, amb un cert afecte — ben bé ara m’ha mort.

Filharmònic camp d’aufals a tesa avui trepollat…

Moixoni: un solo de bels…

Baladeja el boc que li fa que els ababols són carcinògens, ço que no li
desdic pas: “Tot el que és bell és lleig.”

Doncs: magnífica escena pastorívola; una foscor de sobte hi queia. Un
cranc de broma fosca reïx a cruspir-se’ns sencer el Sol.

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