cats – poems 2 die for

FULLY OPERATIONAL

three little bags
of lethal fur

at
the foot of my bed
curled up into a ball, brothers
my boys

behaving impeccably because
they evolved to do so
honoring their
obligation in the contract
which they assure me
(in that contrived
voice I am hardwired
to succumb to)
I must
have conveniently forgotten
I did most
certainly sign

little cocky predator
felis lybica, scourge
of
North Africa
apart from
a fresh coat
of paint
it is you, all three of
you,
wild as ever, still
basically the same
testing my
edges, my boundaries, smearing
me with their smell
getting their
best
handle on me

so close in proximity, until
things get
a bit incommesurate
and you
are light years away from me
going full
Schrodinger, full Lewis Carroll

living hair-triggered, yet
kind of
Zen mindful, full-on
Satrtrean being before essence
existential
philosophers

philosophers
with whiskers, and other
unfair advantages
over us
mere humans who
once
worshipped you

recruited to the all-
conquering armies
of the eternal
city

legions of you, since
the army of Empire marches
on its stomach,
entrusted
with the sacred task
to protect
the grain

whither we go, I go,
there you
go too
apparently

and here you are in a flash
out to accompany me
hot wired
for anything, flanks
and rear protected

fully operational
my little legionaries

from whom (how
the hell
exactly did
this happen?) right from
the outset
that die cast, there is no escape

every manoeuver in our dance
executed to perfection

CAT

The only role in my life left
for anyone to play
is cat.

A whole bunch
arriving
too late by far
to be in time to
make the audition.

So
being
true to their species
came
up with
other ideas

Ubered their little
selves to my wake
took

over
the place

devoured the
whole spread
everything
on a
saucer or plate

in a bowl
or tureen

sad
that someone
had passed, but

hey, miao,
what the hell

this, most
definitely was
a gig
not worth
missing

AT THIS RELATIVELY EXACT MOMENT

sent my cats
into outer space

because I felt
they perceived me to be
too idiosyncratic

felt that they
would be much happier
living on a planet
without humans,
perhaps ruled by dogs

and there they are now
up there about
to leave the solar system
on their way through
the galaxy

tons of recyclable water
and cheapest brand
pet food

about to found a
new civilization some day
at this relatively
exact momemt
off all our
star charts already

the most sneakily dominant
infuriating predatory species

we have
ever seen
our world has
ever had

THE SPECIES FROM THE MOMENT THEY ARE BORN

THE SPECIES FROM
THE MOMENT THEY
ARE BORN

for a few days
they are pathetic
but
those predator
genes kick in

few days looking
shaking my head
at the supreme irony
of their mousiness

but then things are
are unfolded, edges
angles appear

stuff that
pound for pound
(or rather, ounce
for ounce)
outranks almost everything
for kill rate attack
speed, general
deadliness
reaction time faster
than cobra, faster
than tiger

you see it, time it,
and simply cannot believe

and how
they carry this
inside
a fur scabbard sheathed
in cuddliness,
yet that walk is just
sheer femme fatale
including
the masculine ones,
pure Chicago Tommy-gun
their sisters
more inclined
to snipe on the hunt
with telescopic sights

still not
of our hearts complete
conquistadors
but
their quirks and wiles
that first,
twelve thousand years
ago might have
made us
smile

now tipping us
over the edge into
adulation,
cult fascination

finding here
an alien craziness
to
complement
our own

so hard-wired to
perform
in ways so familiar
and yet
so long content to
be totally in the dark
about
but at last
making inroads

beginning to understand
this odd, relentlessly
expanding sort
of perfect
match near
complete jigsaw to
jigsaw puzzling fit

as we watch
these day olds feed
get told who we are and

why
we need to
constantly reminded

who it was
came to the party
discussed conditions
and terms

agreed, they believe,
by all by
unanimous show
of hand and paw

valid
for what feels
like eternity

FRIDGE SYLLOGISM

my cats, great philosophers
that they are
assure me
that inside my
old fridge

it is
pure utopia

a Platonic communist state
jam packed with delicacies
for all
felines
to share

each according to their need, and
power to irrutate

and I, for my Sins (all of
which pretty mortal), have
five of
them, one Socratic,
another Nietzschean and the
rest undecided whether
to follow Slavoj
Zizek or
call themselves Arisotelian

masters (and mistresses) of
the art of the syllogism
each of these
little logicians
expert at reasoning

and so would you be too
if you believed for a moment,
as cats indeed do,
that we
are blessed with
a modicum of rationality
if not an entirely rational species

whose yes/no, valid/invalid, true/false binary processes
can be read off their faces

and exploited to
ensure the

keys to
that aforementioned
paradise are not
left entirely in human hands

CATS LITTER-TURE

cats love writers
writing

my cat curled up
on a sheaf of what
I do believe
is my best
work yet

lying there
begging to differ
Tom (named
after a
certain Mr Hardy
and a
certain Mr
Eliot)

kneads the priceless
text with
kitten claws

interviewed afterwards
(in French) tells
some other
feline
intellectuals

of his
great love
and respect for me
even if what I write is shit

POEM FOR TOM

it’s one helluva
gradient

from
alphabet blocks
to
drowning Prufrock

that sledge hurtling
downward
through the poem.
at the beginning of your
most epochal
poem

but do not
forget the cats, must not
ever ever ever
forget
the cats, little Sasha
meows

for when
you are out in death deserts
wondering what it
was you
missed that
the thunder said
and someone ghostly, incredible,
always walking
beside you

little Sasha is there
bouncing along
avatar of life, beside
you too

though
perhaps
in my world of high
and deep
inspired by you
I haven’t seen her yet

FEATHERS (for Tom)

“…bird without feathers”.
Plato; Woody Allen

must be
in dreamtime

surfing the betwixt
and between

to love and yet
hate
those paltry little tigers
of the domestic persuasion

so much
so much
to talk about
think about
these ultra agile predators
dancing
across my keyboards
snuggled up next to me

covering my universe
my hemisphere
in blankets
of dead feathers

even as tiny toys
especially as tiny tots
criminal stuff wreckers

creators
of havoc

and yet that
curiosity, those play paws
that softness

those eyes
flashing amber
(between, beyond
good
and evil)

no concept of
the shame faced, simply
asking
“Oh bird

without feathers

what did you expect?”

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