caught in a tangled web of estrus, menstruums, and the murderous impulse

got stranded elsewhere – after a few years of sundry alienated haunts


Through the dances to the stillness

Through the dances to the stillness

Murky world.

Walking in a park adjoining my home

I’ve found some stamps

That now abruptly somebody deems valuable

For with his son he is obdurate on recovering

Them from me, though I maintain that I never

Found the fuckers.

They say they’ll fight me to death

They’ll burn the house down

Kill all my plants and birds

Unless the stamps are handed over.

Which stamps…? I walk along the park

With my stick and I try to keep the path

Clean by sweeping under the brush the unseemly

Garbage, what do I care about little squares

Of gaudy images…, and I’m armed anyway.

The dance, I say, shall be jolly if ever undergone

Once underway a hoot no doubt

I see it already: such hilarity.

Murky world.

And last year’s wash is still hanging outside.

After I’ve tried as well as I could

To hang up the long wet carpet

Today I retrieve last year’s washing on the line –

Your lingerie, my suspenders, and so on…

Roils the cold still air the passing tramway

Where our last trip shall commence

I can make up words of rhyming verses

With the rhythm of its claptrap-claptrap advance…

The jerky witty dance indeed

Is underway in my head.

Murky word.

After the eviction

Following the crisp roads

Toward the mountains yonder.

With my sky blue motorcycle and a mattress

And some deep blue pillows

I’m trying to make it across the country home.

As I’ve stopped to replenish the bike’s tank

And with a quick sandwich maybe my stomach

I can’t keep an eye both onto the mattress

And onto the bike itself.

After a moment, as I’m chewing and looking

At the sunny courtyard

I notice that the bedding of the mattress

Is all gone: the topaz sheets, the pillows

The thin brown blankets.

There are customers on pillows, true

There are resting workers

Lazily stretched along the shadows

The building provides

But I’m gaffing continuously

None of the deep blue pillows

Upon which they lean are really mine

I’ve got to apologize every time after my query

And in a good-humored way.

Sounds of the same music again.

Again the joyful but ludicrous dancing on the court.

Murky world.

On with the farce

And the arrival again postponed.


hanging wormy pelt

can’t bark, can’t bark

here, projected, is my body…

what a roaring scent,

what a roaring scent it lets fly…!

is dead…,

is dead and rotting…

in its murkiness,

a sparkling maggot

scoffs at my swift


calls me a rustic,

a no class churl,

no finesse whatever

in the liquefying arts;

such a crying, such a bore,

such a boor, such a crying

inability to render oneself,

or at least to render

graciously oneself

back to the clean humus,

such as one always

certainly should…

and now in her smugness,

she shrieks…

a corpse beetle

lands in her field.

the sparkling maggot

bristles most aggrieved.

fetid quills are crossed,

the fierce adversaries

disregard the juicy meal

of my body…

rotting fast.

lugubrious, the victor

the vanquished devours

as any mother would

her gutsy abortion.

as the sparkling beetle

now flies away,

my body, a derelict,

a sinking deserted wreck,

melts with…,

melts with the sea.

the sea, a juicy…,

a juicy meal

from a bigger corpse yet.

the sea harmonious,

the warring…,

the warring oceans cacophonous,

the blue, the blue…



About hats severally worn by the born


these are the hats I wear

the hats people forget

at my side

whenever I’m sitting

at the brinks

of abrupt


these are the hats

nipped and scratched

often too deeply

just maybe as the people

who wore them

and gave them up.

those are the exhausted

supernumerary hats

I find after the people

who forgot them behind

suddenly up and decided

to jump

or else

step leisurely

into the ravine.

those are the hats I wear

as unwearable maybe

as the people

who left them behind

people who up and marched

with a will toward the abyss.

those are the hats of people

some of whom were allowed

to descend flight by rough

and jagged and craggy flight

to their uppermost bliss

while others were forbidden

the luxury

and had to leave behind

(with their derelict hats)

those excess years

and riches and felicities

and their droves of children

in a spasm.

those are the hats I wear

as those that wore them

up and disappeared

down the chasms

and forgot them

near where in his secluded niche

the surrogate wearer waits

and waits…

as the master winds

blow up the world

as the master

blower blows up

a crude bottle

where the scene

could be

before shattering



before my stunned eyes

a hat blew in the storm

I was disoriented

strange city

heavy rowdy traffic

blinding gaudy lights

I had been eating grapes

with the friendly inhabiters

of a crumbling house

deep pools of rain

where the rats wallowed

but now we needed bread

to eat with the remaining grapes

and I was so disoriented

emerging into the busy artery

I didn’t know where to turn

the smells were injurious

the lights hurtful

the dislodged hats blew around

and about

whirlpools of incongruous objects

in eddies of splintering hats

the crazed cars

rammed down dogs

and pigeons

and tykes

and left those unspeakable messes


so that new cars rapidly

passed above

and with a vengeance

trying to obliterate the hideous


the revolting outrage

I was utterly disoriented

the offensive smells

the garish neons

the clattering stabbing hum

I submerged myself back


and when even without a puny loaf


I reached again the dilapidated house

new lodgers were busy about

and worst

putting in new shiny appliances


the rude bullying servicemen

who chased me away

like another grubby


putrefying hat.

qui s'endinsa al guaitajorns?


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