these cats and our torpor the extravagant languor of this mourning night dwells in these fibers and bones we are, brutalised bodies pinned bare under the sky, meat and its scars and the trickling blood that quenches the mad stars, wherever they are in the black ribbed cage dead heaven is, lunatic as existence and too pissed to think of other than more drinking and i am possessed with insane jealous rage if a cat prefers its mother over me, just a minute; i understand cats, and they me, but women are creepy, wild blind fish that swim in their cold black seas full of fathers, cats and me are crazy and burn this painful madness, but essentially harmless, cats are cruel and violent, they say, but i think we're fundamentally alright - we don't do that much wrong, really, we're beasts but basically nice, prisoners of hormones and life
Poetry by David McLean
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