No hi ha al món re més repugnant que un botifler

Malsons nus

1. Una paraula se t’enfuig del cervell – ans no ha reexit a fer’s, a formar’s del tot, mentre es va empedreint, com ara inscripció negra en llosa enjòlita, es desfà – se’t fon al fons de l’ull orb – hi desapareix com gargot de quitrà en pou de quitrà.

2. No volgut pels comcals – per llurs corredors i sales de rajoles lluents, t’hi troben balder; de fet, ni reconeixen que hi ets; ni que existeixes, segurament – cap cas, com ara si guaitessin cap exposició i tu no hi fóres ni el cendrer del racó. Per això te’n tornes, rebutjat, tret que ans no arribis al camí que duu a casa, al carreró fosc tens el pas barrat pels escaguitxats, pels llefiscosos, pels qui ja es desfan com incipients carronyes – no t’hi vols pas envescar.

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[ a) I’ve thought a word – it floats away; partly solidifies in midair – before it manages to write itself out, the black letters of the word disappear into my blind eye -like sprayed squiggles of tar falling back, they suddenly melt into the tar pit of the total darkness of the dead eye.

b) Obviously, the swells don’t want you there – they stand and elegantly converse without deigning to throw your way the trifle of a passing glace – they ignore your presence, you are less noticed even than any archaic cuspidor forgotten in a corner ever would. That’s why you exit into the night, on your way home – only that in a narrow side street a bunch of nasties obstructs your advance – they are the squidgy ones – half rotten, like just exhumed recent corpses – you surely don’t want touch them.]