Lliçó del pont de Bagdad

Lliçó del pont de Bagdad (on, en boig esparpellament,
un miler periren, esclafats, trepitjats, ofegats)



—Esquitlleu-vos, fills meus,
de romandre mai
entre l’ignara voluda.

—Qualsevol falsa alarma
l’empeny al
mortífer esparpellament.

—Moriren perquè tenien por
de morir.

—Si haguessin estats
disposats a morir
no haurien morts.

—Maleïda por
de la voluda ignara
on la peguesa de cadascú
se suma
en peguesa summa.

—Amb por, mors tostemps
de neguit i desfici
(i llavors de debò
sempre a destemps).

—Sense, a ton temps.

That's how the season's bound to end...

That's how the season's bound to end...

---

Here's how the season does looms... Things are shaping up like it follows... Unless it is only in my dreams...

Anyway, here it comes.

Vila-real
Mallorca
València
Barça

Hey, the four Catalonian teams first, second, third, fourth!


And by what marvelous miracle in the reverse order of titles won up till now. Here is at last justice for you! About time too!

The kingdom of fucking heaven must be upon us!

But let's quit the fancy theology...

fifth: Bilbo
sixth: Donostia
seventh:Osasuna (from Irunya; Osasuna means Health in Basque)
eighth: Arabès (from Gasteiz)

Ok. So after the four Catalonian teams, the four Basque teams. It stands to reason. If figures, Probably, if instead of being a Catalonian, I were a Basque, those four teams would had been the four first finishers... Who can say... It's all idle speculation... Too deep philosophy... Not for me, practical man.

Now:

A Corunya
Celta (from Vigo)

Hey. Here we have the two Galician teams. The Galicians are the north Portuguese, and they speak Portuguese. Ok, I love them.

Betis (from Seville)
Seville
Malaga
Cadix

These are the Andalusian teams. Andalusians, these are the Arabs in disguise. Very cultured people. They deserve to be an independent nation. It would be the bridge Europe needs, between the blood-thirsty Europeans and the religion-stupified Arabs... Ok, maybe for next century or so. If there is still a new century left in humanity. If the fucking warriors haven't sent the earth to astronomical pasture: little bits of rock orbiting the moon.

Fifteenth: Saint Ander (that's a Basque name, Ander, meaning Andrew)

The old Cantabrian people, maybe by now irretrievably poisoned by the thieves...?

Sixteenth: Saragossa.

The Aragonese, before, when they were somebody, you had them happily allied with the Catalonians, now that they are nothing they are allied of course with the genocidal thieves. Lost creeps...

And last, of course, who else but the genocidal thieves, the ass-painers:

Seventeenth: Athletic Shit
18: Getaffen (are they monkeys or something? they certainly speak as such)
19: Ass-painish (utterly disgusting; the name says it all)
20: Royal shit (the representative of unalloyed horror).


And here you are. If at the end it ain't like it at all, at least it won't be my fault. Me, I'm praying that my scheme succeeds. Verbatim. Everybody in the world should do likewise, pray that it happens, I mean. Wouldn't then we all be laughing. Barrels of laughs, I tell you.

tot el que trec

ací tot el que trec d'altres indrets

exemple: això que anava al guaitajorns...

04 juliol 2005

Last of the Catalonians

---

...as an American police inspector, I went into the dilapidated shack; above, in a damp narrow den, lived a grizzled melancholy old salt.

He had been exiled long ago; actually he'd been kicked into the sea by the thieves who had invaded his country.

I'm a Catalonian and the castelladrians (also called, through a horrible geographical distorsion, sapniards or asspainish) after robbing me and all my family of every item, plus of any single thread of dignitiy, proceeded with drunken patriotic glee to killing us off... I managed to swim into a whaler, from which later, after having contributed my hard work, I was also marooned into this country of thankless creeps.


Avaricious castelladrians, helped by the nazis and the frogs, as they did with the arabs and the jews, thus with the Catalonians... Exterminated us.


Of the grief and terror of those times he recounted no end. Until he died, without acknowledging to any type of crime ascribable to himself.

Downstairs, his daughter was suckling an infant. "Will the tyke ever speak Catalonian...? Now I doubt it. My father used to listen at the radio. Despite the fact that the names of the stations and of the organizations from his old (now occupied) country kept the names in Catalonian, as for example Museu d'Art Modern Valencià, nothing came in Catalonian any longer... I don't see the point to burden my son with a language and a memory of something dead..."

I said: Your are in consequence the last of the Catalonians. And I smiled, like a fucking idiot.

It must have irked her, for she, very angrily said: Our case is not different than yours, you arrogant asshole!



True, death coming as a recurrent tsunami. Now taking the Mohicans, now taking the Catalonians, now taking the Americans... All sand. All dust. All cinders...

And then I remembered. Oh, perspectives of the ages... I was oddly touched. I saw a bird.

The corpse upstairs had led such an innocent life. Happy him nonetheless.

How bitter the lives of the thieves and murderers in contrast!

Better never to be any longer, than keep on being a pushing destroying tsunamical shit...

On cue, the holy-spiritual bird shat on my pate. Yonder, the simple cop driving my vehicle hid a snigger... He knew not that this shit and its sudden symbology were my hallowed cinders... I was now walking in humility... Provided it lasted...! Almost aloft... Knowning now that the most criminal is not the marooned nobodies but the strutting bosses who sent them into the pitiless wilderness...


"To the nearest bar," I said, "I need a drink."