A Book for Sant Jordi's Day.

 

You know surely where:

big depository of posthumous C.R.'s works: 

https://archive.org/details/@cr_morell

Prosit! And thanks.

Free to browse

You are free to browse. Some of his and Agathon’s works have been added at this address:



https://archive.org/details/@cr_morell

77

 

(Transients transeünts pels turments de la insanitat sondrollats.)

D’on trac l’energia? Naixia assistit per una perversa energètica sucosa prodigiosa traça per a acabar, sempre i en totes condicions, la feina començada.

Com es pot ésser prou higiènic ni distès en aquest ambient rude, en aquest clima hòrrid i tòrrid, on gladiadors i xarlatans, i tifes en general, caòticament s’aferrissen, grotescs gripaus triomfants, a tindre raó, on de debò tot allò que diuen no són sinó desvergonyits potineigs, i allò que fan re altre que eixorcs xipolleigs de metzinosa bava.

Els homes de les feines senceres (fets tots un formiguetes) «enceren corretges, ajusten politges, n’ungeixen els engranatges...». But what’s the use? Tota construcció es deteriora, s’ensorra, esdevé ruïna; encarcarada, tesa com estocafix, a miques s’extingeix; al cap de no re, no en roman re. Tot treu al mateix, el buit. «Del buit ens traus, i al buit tornem» diuen cascuna de les efímeres construccions.

No siguis ruc. formigueta. Pren-te sempre prou lleure, home banal, circumstancial. Amb bleix pausat, val molt més sempre de jeure sota un cel d’estels i d’arcs iridescents que no pas basquejar’s com un camàlic anquilosat rere cap altra fútil fantasmada. Que les més esbojarrades tempestes causin les devastacions que vulguin, mentre romans hipogeu, bon sopluig o mendraig avall. Ja en sortiràs, del cau secret, quan torni, si mai torna, la pau.

Com enyores la innocent complaença prehistòrica quan ignoràvem encar que entre els cucs i nosaltres no hi havia, al fons de la realitat, cap distància ni una.

Vivia entre cucs i arnes, entre parracs i draps bruts, i somreia amb complaença, pagat de comprovar com tothom m’estimava. Cantussejava un aire lleuger a l’estil de la Bridgewater. Llavors un conegut dels anys de la picaó, de qui son semblant representava el quadre tètric de la més caricaturesca luxúria, em va aturar prop la via vora el castell. «Quin sant s’ha penjat? Ja t’han tret de la garjola?»

«Perdoneu» li dic, «em deveu prendre per altri. Soc el músic Sabater, pertot faedor d’un gran paper.» Car sempre has odiades les mòrbides hipocresies dels elogis i les elegies. Emanacions radioactives. Tribus, què són sinó famílies de dracs, tots alhora escopinant tothora llamps forcats?

Escarransidot, lletjot i sense un ral a la butxaca, no em podia pagar cap putarrona al bordell. I allò que no és putarrona, com s’hi accedeix? Mai ho haig pogut mai resoldre. Mes...

«Recorda-te’n que et caparen i esnarigaren a la cangrí!»

«I ben fet que feren. Car quin descans, vós! Un treball de menys! Només aniria al bordell, si em trobava posem per cas cap peça de pistrincs part de terra, a prendre-m’hi una menta, i per a la distracció i la companyia de les belles ànimes qui hi feinegen, com sempre feia àdhuc quan, diguéssim, encar era mig del món.»

Car, en efecte, dec ésser el més innocent dels carallots. Mai no he sabut interpretar les intencions de cap de les setanta-set femelles qui se m’han obertes de cuixes, i sota les faldilles només s’hi percebia, al fons, no pas cap gloriós tapament de calces de cotó blanques, ans, cada cop, un cony, un conyàs, tot plorós i delerós. Estrany que sempre ho interpretés com una manifestació espontània d’un altre element atzarós, com qui diu, atmosfèric.

Mos inclinacions presents entren en litigi amb mos instints palingenètics, i cal dir que aquests darrers els trob ben esmussats. No soc capaç d’albirar un cony ofert, i llençar-m’hi sobre com insistirien que fes els meus ímpetus ni brius ni braons avials. Sempre em sembla, al moment de l’exposició, que allò no deu ésser sinó un error de perspectiva, un miratge, un efecte meteòric, meteorològic, passatger, espuri. Un cony que ha passat per un trasbals o altre. Encar hi plou després de la tempesta. O s’hi ha escaigut no fa gaire una secreta congregació solemne de llimacs i xones. Qui sap. El món, tot hi són meravelles.

Grues i caderneres hi bullim indiscriminadament, a les calderes de les sopes heterogènies. Tot hi és incert dins l’incert de l’incert. Espai, temps, gravetat, tot hi fluctua i en contorsions es desenvolupa i ‘desendesenvolupa’, i hi és asexual i hi és simulacre, i hi excel·leix sovint en el més gran desavantatge.

Amb plomes de monal al capell, em transformava en guru, i m’afirmava, «Noi, noi, calma’t.» I em donava copets al muscle esquerra, i m’afegia, «No et desficiïs, saps? Ara mateix t’ho resolc.»

Allò que els manca als il·luminats de totes les èpoques és precisament més llums — per a entendre’ns, enteniment. Això ens cal doncs, d’aprendre i de saber d’enraonar amb si mateix. Una eloqüència universal, on tothom i cada cosa llavors clarament no em comprèn, de les falenes d’autumne als flocs de neu de darrers de març, i sobretot jo mateix, sigui qui sigui qui fos al moment d’escoltar-me. Un exercici molt entenedor d’evocació, exprimit tot fent dringar l’úvula o campaneta (en realitat, el batallet), i amb aquell so únic posar-me alerta davant l’evidència que, a despit de totes les adversitats, visc. Visc, tot i que els veig, de lluny, cars adips i dilectes voltors, qui se’m querellen pel cadàver abandonat prop el templet arruïnat enmig de qualque remot desert, amb hieroduls d’ambdós sexes, lascius i fecunds, dansant, en espiritual aiguabarreig, amb les sàvies besàvies, de qui les pítiques incursions verbals escarneixen i vilipendien tots i cascun dels suposats desllorigadors de l’inescandallable ni l’inescudellable.

Soc rere les misterioses petjades prop l’aiguaneix, no pas massa lluny de mon cadàver. Estranys grassos renocs, carques monarques de l’oceà Fangós, treuen el caparró, tornant de llurs reialmes subterranis de la mort. Què em diuen amb llurs llavis aparentment muts tot i que es belluguen sense arrest? Ni que els responc, alternatiu?

«S’escau que pertanys a l’horda ingent/ De mesquins poetes putrefactius.»

«Te’m torques al·lotell als voravius/ Si veus mon estre aixeta senescent.»

«Trontolles per assegadors d’oblits/ T’acomiades d’albirs i fragàncies.»

«Vell m’estavell — esborrades distàncies/ I obeeixc pòstum els senys aigualits.»

«Bonanit i bonhora, mestre del gros garbuix/ Transient transeünt qui es mor entre el rebuig.»

«Transient Transeünt, incert rebuig/ Llençat impunement al Gros Garbuix.»

Sorra infinita entre oceà i cel molt enemics. «Desert d’amics, de béns i de senyor/ Mai recollons no m’he trobat millor.»

////

Those that think in Catalan do exist

[Those that think in Catalan do exist.]


Those that think in Catalan do exist
In a forbidden world
Condemned to silence.

Thus if we happen ever to talk
Our serpent tongue
Turns into flame.

A fury of a flaming tongue
That starts fires on each of the perverted permitted worlds.

Worlds then so enraged
That they themselves feed and fan the flames
Until they manage to have themselves
Turned to ashes.

There are so many shining worlds
Where ours is just opaque
Eclipsed and so far from the Sun’s bloody center
That is bound at the end to be
The last one
The last one of them all
Also burned to cinders.

El qui pensem en català existim.

[Els qui pensem en català.]


(Bons catalans com les serps ens lleixem
Sempre guiar per la llengua.

Si la llengua ens ho diu
Segurament ho endevinàvem.)

«Els qui pensem en català existim
En un món prohibit
Condemnat al silenci.

Per això si mai ens exprimim
La nostra llengua de serp
Esdevé de foc.

Una llengua de foc
Que encén els perversos mons permesos
Els quals ells mateixos
Inflamats de ràbia
Alimenten les flames
Fins que esdevenen cendra.»


(...)


[Eclipsi.]


En una munió de mons lluents
El nostre és opac
Tan lluny del centre del Sol
Que al capdavall serà el darrer a cremar-se.


////

A star my sonny

Agathon found an outlet

Here:


https://archive.org/details/agathon-mc-cracken.-ceaseless-waves-of-useless-assholes

Something else

Found recently in "google books":

From a so-called journal where silly prissy old fusspot Ricard Salvat sissyishly remonstrates about Reig's "La Ingènua la violen..."

Funny.

Well, and what about the foreign barbaric words he employs? No vocabulary? Poor guy!

Here are the excerpts:

From a notebook named “Ideas”

The Self as Object.


Same as everybody else is an object in the eyes of the self, it stands to reason that the self itself has to be an object. No less an object than the others. Objects, the others, that deteriorate and die and melt into the background, each not unlike any other “lesser” piece of garbage.

The self therefore, what should it be but another object perhaps better taken care of, so that, seeing how the other objects fare, it deteriorates maybe at a slower pace, and so is more durable, and thus can think longer about objects and selves, and shits like that.

[After reading “Mü” by Zamyatin. From a notebook named “Ideas”, Leeds, 1974.]

C.R. — Days of Wine and Loaves.

 

Today I would’ve been a hundred.

I’m the human roll
Roll with all the punches
And never any return

What for?

And anyway how could I?
I’m rolling down

Remember?

(...)

C.R. — Days of Wine and Loaves.

By which enchantment of self-deception the bogus aeronautics of the wondrous pawn I were took a turn for the worse? For if in weak fortitude the nuts that held the magic carpet wherein I lewdly flew among the smog, leering loathing fetishizing above the violent immitigable disparities of our dystopian paradise, shrank as spongeous cornerstones surely would, and for a second the passionate resources of my barbarian masculinity in astringent misshapen fragments bonkers, farcically bonkers, went, why then one could still keep somehow afloat?

Fringes of scum were retroactively looming, sorrowful aureoles for our vice-ridden planet, as myriads of coruscating satellites, clandestine voyeurs who as I were skilled Olympians circling with the intuition of born leapers the most inaccessible of the flesh kitchens, where the choicest of coffins sported strangled chorus girls whose gigantic lips kept on elocutionizing their despairing superstitious pessimisms, fell, for an ephemeral instant, as of brazen asteroids their unfathomable hammers, upon the melancholy limelight of that sclerotic pannage, that ludicrous repulsive spectacle, and just as also would throngs of entomologists who, lithe and athletic, would spontaneously interrupt the odd inveterate baking on of the superannuated constellations whose obsolescence stank, and which in fact had run the gamut of the silliest of exhibitionisms, we lobbed, as the cretinous lepidopterists their iconic nets, our sublime grenades, transforming the carnifying farms into warped crematoria, that only snarling butterflies of cosmic oblivion would let escape.

Those were fraught moments indeed. I had been that indelible impostor, a cherub while small, and I went often perched behind to the province of waters and hellebores with my plenty vigorous courageous dad; angler on his bicycle after the trouts of the stream, along the pebbly towpaths, we would reach our destination.

There always does happiness linger in wait for us, and the horseflies, and the dear bees, also, once or twice, the harassed and pathetic mountain lions and at their tail those huge pitiless despicable hunters, and among the suspicious derelicts of past glories the specters on the other side of the spray hurtling about, traveling fast, like hostile nun with disgregating robes, and the never in distress damsels, rather than near, afar, always luckily afar, damned damsels. Quite.

And then by the riverside often enough his quiet deliberate delivery of verities about his war as a flyer, and also about her, miss Eileen Alarm, his first wife, the faithless actress, would slowly come my way, all those talismanic tiny todgers and the cursed slimy pearls born of them, always at the mercy of chronology, and at the mercy of the bitings, all in all disguised as another coherence scene.

And what’s the diagnosis about all those tame herds of headstones? He stood guard upon a cemetery, don’t you know, and the poisonous underground of chaotic borderings later told on his health.

Then amid the uninhibited dreams of brown merds, my loyal me, woven shadows for the eye, naked from the waist down, having knelt among the pimps, reminiscing about the atavistic mimics of nature’s magnum opus, sexual intercourse, wouldn’t you know, the lean keen eye of the goddess Eileen, my egg cracked like a mirror, would come impinging across the thresholds, the fragmented pylons of the night.

In the thud of the season, crippled by contemptuous lechery, at last, queasily lying supine in chemical death, swamped with conflicted amenities, every broken glass a slender and pellucid museum servile to the dark oneiric jungle, nauseated, I spat in consternation at her diminutive bottom, which eye leaked obviously squealing quanta of futility.

But now the bitter honey of resounding merriment felt itself called out by the constrained paradoxes of some sudden outlandish magnetic convulsion to endure the pangs of spasmodic disappearance. Yes, I could inveigh against the ineradicable anthropological purpose that shackled me to putative hindsight, and also alas to a core of pervasive denial, but hey, who knew, the melding worms of total violence couldn’t care less about my plangent spasms. Their never the less cretinous throngs couldn’t contain the seamless incontinence of their academic laughter, whose voluminous daughters, crime and terror, with their unbounded taste for degenerate usurpation, soured, to say the least, the exuberant longings of the intrepid adherents to the League for the Cadential Evisceration of Haruspical Humanics.

What? Indeed. We of the LCEHH have never drunk from the lunatic elixir of ceremonious parleys. We prefer the springy concision of astray intestines. We neglect every ridiculous illustration of zealous reasoning in contrary favor of forcibly obeyed intuition.

During one of those never disowned baragouinning days, suddenly I found myself on the verge of falling into the warping sphere of a hard-boiled mistress, another asphyxiating Eileen Alarm. Exactly, a fledgling mellonymph nipped in the bud, turned away, fidgeting and groaning, and wracked with the excruciating pain of withdrawal, longing again for her stultifying caresses, feeling that the lot was lost even before really having had a single proper taste, torn almost at the bud of her clit, my mouth not unlike the slavering one of a ravenous half-hooked fish who’s just reached the flesh-shattering allure of the bait. Ah colossal specter of an electrifying mistress, how, in empty gratitude and dull regret, at last, abject object of obfuscating greed, I fled from her majestic peremptoriness into fictional lacunae of soliloquy and introspection, where under the thunderous cobblestones, mutating fowls and amazing amazons, in a growing mountain of garbage lyricism, embodied my fretting utterances with a quite questionable resemblance to reality.

Snaking now through the ashes and bonfires from the stewing ruins left after the Circassian wars, where the female warriors, their erotic mastery sparkling to the fore, with unspun relish, and added stabbing bouts of derision, definitely screwed civilization, I became the proverbial prowler, with the nictitating brain of a salamander, forgetting the olden superannuated heebie-jeebies, for I had already castrated myself, and now spying instead, not only how the beauties, Adriatic geniuses warped by bellicose rage, were, now victorious, succumbing to vice as did earlier indeed the dinosaurs, who had wilted in the obscene dishwater of incremental rancor, but, in poignant juxtaposition, spying also the disreputable purgatory where, in nacreous oases, astrophysics kept on being studied. In a word, again jilted at the last hour, I went for broke, and joined the tentacular League.

Castrated, you say, by which magic alchemical excision, the useless accessories blotted out, and yourself turned into a totem without foibles and with such an imprudent wit, that we had to keep on scratching out, rather off, the dirt of that tongue of yours until you had succumbed and swallowed those illegitimate words, and the mild relish of a few stupes could be afforded to be apposited where those circus agonies took their sulphureous source.

And now what. Totally clean, there we were, wholly committed, for all intents and purposes, to wiping away those damned narcissistic constellations forever watching themselves on the flattering pools of our groaning eyes. How pretty, how luminous, how well balanced they thought themselves!

“Shit, yes, wipe away the shiny grin of those bafflingly idiotic constellations!” We would scream, thorns of revenge sprouting from the marrows of our clangorous bones, our guts spilled, and with the asshole hysteria associated to certain homicidal maniacs festering also, alas, in narcissistic pomposity.

We were all volunteers. Irreparable champions of insurrection. We would never stagger down the magnitude of our supinity. With the distasteful impatience of passionate crackpots, we rode the momentum to the febrile fangs of shattering yearnings for barbarian aesthetics. Soon we would be mythologized as darkened, prestigiously anodyne, adherents sporting the alarming symptoms of the harridan, the gamut of kaleidoscopic scintillating ruthless luxuries of intolerable monstrosity that erstwhile also afflicted our sworn enemies, the perpetually humorous female killers of manhood.

Perhaps incensed at such exuded abjection, suffering from the raw excreta of careening flashbacks, where in chagrined humiliation some of us realized that what the steely usurpers of yore did, in the genre of furrowed atrocities, we were now attempting, even to the least minutiae, to repeat, a few imagined friendships insipidly broke through.

Today it rained. Hurrah for my percussive umbrella, for I had found myself again beggarly alone in the streets. With gorgeous melancholy, in the shadow of an spectral excavator finishing to weed out the last shreds of dead autumns where discarded worlds had been brought like dry leaves to fiery collision in order to be done with them once and for all, I wallowed in a dream-sequence of scandalous voluptuousness.“What, sexless, could have stimulated the borrowed fecundity of my lubricious mirth”, you, pathological commodification of some idiosyncratic figment, may ask. Well, it was the stolid chaos of my purported auto-hagiography, I’ll be damned. That was it. I would engrave on a perennial stele, Hammurabi-wise, the sumptuous lies of my earlier lives, when, embodying hybrid domains of interrogation, whelks wheels wings breads wines summers swines, and squamous never squeamish cunts, were sown in such verily dashing smoldering fashion over the inchoate undisciplined soil of my memory, thus whipped up into orgasms of random time-capsule intimacy, that, the profligate sum of it sucked into the ferociously sinister frissons of the cesspit, and then shaken with sundry puerile abductions from the tortuous narrow pyramid of my secret psychosis, disdaining withal any adipose hierarchy of saddened clues, altogether the result being a concoction of such a glory of smoking stinking indigestible pap as to heroically annihilate, all others subsumed into its overweening obtuse crap, the labyrinthine reputation of never-read alien masterpieces, now each and all to zealous crematoria bound, that, I say, on behalf of the scapegoat and for the sake of truth, enslaved to the savage mirror of overcompensating perpetuation, I chose to disappear instantly every time a thought dared come against the wall of my scornful non being.

I was funereal scurrilous unsubtle. Their stupid dogma also lacking the faintest whisp of verisimilitude, those viscous atrophied members so zealously belonging to the indecorous Leak. The Leak from the Pyromaniacal Cacophrenics of the Decadent and Ulcerated. I couldn’t, who could, make heads nor tails of it.

I fled in blazing lights, but where? Born exiled, exiled shall I die. Yonder, the harmonious tettixes aggravated with their severe upbraiding the penurious screed where my crippled penetralia and its perennial lousy feelings acerbically lay.

Discomfort abrades, the poisoned rhythmal throb of my doleful beans insistingly bites. An abyss of subversion translates the failure of all my skills into the flamboyant derision of defeatism. Dandelion puffs of remembrances break on the surface of my senses like cheapo bibelots. In wan obsolescence the retroactively unplumbable chaos collides with the sinking expiation of my soaked rope. Hear the grudges beyond the wobbling corks, the fishes’ voices, condemned phantoms, mercurially starved for epitaphs.

Vestals of the tantalizing graveyards, gunslingers monstrously pregnant with a predilection for vexatious uncogency, pass me the nonfiction scepter of anastasis, that the taste for the lost words might announce with clarions of volatile intimacy their return, that the saccharine behemoths (“no beauty like Eileen’s”) brewing since conscience hatched in my ovum cranial might like Olenus be transmogrified into stone, and that on those same stones my regurgitating mind might be able to engrave some of what was really juicy when lived. For my spitchcocked brain now bathes in unpalatable vitriol.

The whole of the time some giant wonder yellow snake lurks waiting behind doors and under beds and furniture; I know that its deadly bite slowly suspends all electrical communication between my trembling brain and the rest of frying me; the house holds many of them, it seems, eight or nine, all invited guests of my inimical son and his fairy friends, nasty dealers, whom I cannot evict, for his rights (and by extension theirs) to stay are indeed more valid than mine, so what else should I do than to flee to dangerous night fields outside, beyond the reach of the enormous jaws of the colossal dragon snakes that now haunt the house so easily and matter-of-factly?

The successful effrontery of a baying butterfly hunting hives of aboriginal daimons, aristocratic in their taxonomical excrescences, recurrent dreams coined by a succession of geriatric afternoons where the sinewy moribund, thirled to a lobotomized macrocosm of spilt litanies, succumb to the fluid evanescence of sinister eruptions. Martyr’s utterances of giggling ignominies mixed with the other’s admonitions to inexorable submission.

But never mind them, a mob of unnecessary duplicates, the myriad of bones that curdle the shunned cellar like perverse festoons. Focus rather on myself, my own bones, all rucked up in the corner, strung up in a nervous snarl of useless ropes. Often cowed by rumination, the scale of it, boy, like when meticulously treading to be the measured one by the appointed butcher, and suddenly, now and then, at the edge of distraction, and hitting at opacities, my brains ambiguous caricatures whaling on the mosses, no, the salpeters.

Doomed but stoic. Occasionally fleshing myself up with the fresh breeze of inchoate sightings — enigmatic boats beckoning in the languishing distance. Enormous attitudes, latitudes, combing the depraved intimacies of virtual pieties, until, sanctimoniously sated, the bathetic limping, its resonance, the profane ankles deep into my carapace, tickle me to random outbursts of fondness. No longer am I squatting in a corner, wheeling in dizzying counterpoints of tedious flayings and hilariously flawed marginals. Am what then? Another epochal manipulative cringer whose lousy jeremiads diagnose not the greed and cruelty of this incendiary realm, but his qualms before the supine bombshell of despicability enveloping the totum.

An whole crop of unredeemable shivers, the agony of kinky annihilation, murmurs of cabbages fantastic, windows to the quagmire where the loquacious grasshopper declaims picturesque obituaries, soliloquies insane enough to become outlandishly didactic until, hilariously stumped, I quit. No, no wits enough to erode the irrevocable misery of those consternating surroundings. Better adapt, dismantle the awry spree, before you are corroborated a paranoid screwball.

But wait. A phalanx marched through the woods. Peripheral, they loomed and loomed, swords under clothes, irrelate to any stupefacient intent of sociopathic machinations, one hopes. Gregarious they advanced, in a column, dormant on their feet, evincing no surprise when the dropouts from the unwieldy column, agroof upon the ololiuqui, blithely melted into the ground, figurines of glaucous wax. Them the absolutists of the incorrigibly hallowed League, those that had shed successfully all species of scathing overweight. I a stroke of genius, they had also surrendered the cheating deceptive mangled ill-spirited mantle of being.

For after all, dead, alive, man, no fucking difference.

(...)

A few days before he himself kicked the bucket.

A few days before he himself kicked the bucket.

Last night something Reig told me only a few weeks (maybe just a few days) before he himself got offed down South, came back to my mind out of the red-mooned blue.

“I dreamt,” he said, “that I was a char woman and that my life, the five chapters of my life, were contained in five buckets, the five buckets I as the woman had in my (her) small room where the rest of our cleaning implements were kept.

“Why five chapters?

“Perhaps a token each of my life with the five wives. Who knows.

“Now, the buckets were filled up to a third of their capacity with water. Those waters were somehow magic, for on their surface you could read (or rather see) the main scenes belonging to each of the chapters. It was a clean water, for it was the night and the woman was then not the one that (surely herself, the same woman, awfully transformed, badly altered) would later appear with the morning.

“She meanwhile was the night lady, the cleaning one [no pas la dona de les brutícies, ans la de les neteges], the one that kept the waters clean and legible, the one enchanted with the clearness on the screen, with the clear order of my worldly transit as shown on the quiet surface of the five buckets.

“The dirtying woman would be there with the morning light, all ready to clean everything over with the clean waters inside the vital buckets. Soon her waters were of course troubled, so that my life was also all muddled, and unreadable.

“And worthless, so worthless that the deteriorated char woman, meaning myself, at the end, disgusted, kicked the buckets, in fact the bucket, for the five buckets, their waters so intermixed now, their contents were, try as hard as you may, not only indecipherable, unrecoverable; so that the five could as well be thought as one, the same garbled garbage inside...

“The bucket, kicked, fell. All its blood was shed. Its variegated show and tell totally spilt. Down the sewer it went. Unwanted, too tainted. Phantom palimpsest definitely erased. Just a bit of some more disregardable sewerage indeed. Life spent. Game over.

“And with it as well the dream was done.

“Did the unfortunate discomposed char woman later on take the upturned, now empty, bucket, and climb it? Did she undo the belt of her janitorial apron and hang it on the beam of that little secret inconspicuous room of ours? Did she then thrust her head into the slack of the hanging belt and did she check its tautness around her scrawny neck? Did she lastly push off the bucket with her feet?

“Wouldn’t put it past her. Quite possibly, all said and done. Idle speculation, though, for by now anyhow, as I was saying, the damned dream had flown.”

As for me, the evocative one, did the quaint remembrance keep me all mindful, and thoughtful and awake? You bet. And yet, come on, not for that long either.

Coming next...

Trying to put in order the recovered lost posts from 2004...

Of which, three samples...

Soon...

A concoction from March 1973

Poem inserted in the booklet, sort of catalog, accompanying an exhibition of ceramics, paintings and snapshots having to do with pears. Shown in Lleida, May 1973; Barcelona, September, '73, and Girona, October, '73.

Excised fragment

An orphan bit excised from who knows where. Notice how he maintains the equilibrium of vital forces, while nonetheless still venting helter-skelter a few damaging quips. N'est-ce pas?

Poem 41... We saw somebody there - YES!

Previously shown here and here and here and here... Hey! What? Yep!


http://reigian.blogspot.com/2009/02/41-grotty.html

http://ceaselessassholes.blogspot.com/2009/02/41-grotty.html

http://xiulets.blogspot.com/2009/02/41-grotty.html

http://carlasredge.blogspot.com/2009/02/41.html

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.