Lovely pressures in handcuffs
instead of loud sex that causes cops to bang
on your door seem, when I’m horny, when I’m
really disgusting and try to force myself to just be
sweet and lie about Internet porn and say how totally
werewolf-with-inner-conflicts I am … well, they seem
to bend my cat body in the litter box into
the shape of a cat who imitates a shy bladder.
One thing about cats: they don’t get shy bladders.
And when they do they’re only imitating them.
And when you see a cat imitating anything it’s meant
to be offensive. Cats pretending – pretending to be
rich businessmen, pretending to be food, technology – are always
offensive. Or the cat is pitying itself.
Its mind feels like this side of the avocado, decorated in
feathers and in the middle: a squatting panic button.
Cops did search my home not too long ago and found a dirndl.
I’m a registered sex offender, after all.
‘This thing is a tit-annihilatingly
ruthless toy that inspired dictatorship, hands that vibrate,
Precious Goo™ and South Park – a rich man slash fat smug cat
left in the oven overnight
in an experiment that led to a brain catastrophe:
he looked like a baby mutant with a fiery mane.’
The oven’s screen coated in swirling dust,
an exit route, augmented reality navigation display.
Limbs that convey motion.
Germs that burn on hot bodies.
Look how beautiful that aurora, baby.
What’s that? A cat pretending to be a germaphobe?