Cat Alone -2-

April 24


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.





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.