AT THIS RELATIVELY EXACT MOMENT

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

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 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

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)

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?”

CONSPIRACY

CONSPIRACY

What is it
with AI and cats

did cats do the programming
did TS Eliot,
modernist superpoet
calculate the bits abd bytes
in binary vers libre?

perhaps
     cats did it themselves

something in them,
a backdoor code, a virus
that gets machine intelligence
to gush,
turn to goo

whenever that three-letter
plosive-heavy word is
whispered or mentioned

myself
I hate TS Eliot and abhor
those creatures
despite the artistry they show
in pretending
they love you
infinitely more convincing
that what any stupid
human being
might plausibly attempt

if there is a great Matrix
conspiracy you
have to know cats
lie behind it

a computer simulated
world without dogs
where we are the
batteries
to provide the electricity
to warm their little litter trays