It's you, Cat, Cat on the coffin watching the pendulum swing, A paw up slapping, Trailing the unraveled part, Stalking the dead man's brains and finding a cold gray knot .Looking up and out at the pallbearers' hearts. It's you, Cat, Cat felis catus catus. Scrounging near the twilight for the already dead, Claiming the troth of the undertaken souls .While the weeping acidic rain Taps hats forever. It's you, amoral children, Suppressing your fantastic fears, Bending to peer inside the shiny box
Where a ludicrous shape Begins to arise -- The cat-head winks. Eyes grow wide. Lips shout faceless,
"Be mine! Be mine!" It's you, Doctor Spade, Slipping your wiry brown fingernail down the hip of her jeans,
Poking and dragging the egg yolk out.
Tomorrow's baby, a grappled breakfast. It's you, cocaine fool, Sniff-snortin' to feel so good about so damn little when you got so much, Just wishin' your nostrils were stainless steel And your mind a Pillsbury cake. It's you, mid-morning American jogger, wearing the shelves of J C Penny's Like the stripes of your flag.
It's you, bike-outlaw, Smelling of pig grease, Quaker State, and Gulf Supreme, Tattooing the buttocks of JoJo's little sister, Head-giver whenever you please.
It's you, old veteran at the VFW Hall, wrapping your loose lips around another smudged glass of gin, Bemoaning Tommy Dorsey's demise, Foaming up a bromide lyric Before your bowed head makes a wrinkle on the rail.
It's you, subscribers to a thousand magazines. And you, the writers for a thousand magazines. And you, the publishers of anything that sells. And you, the buyers of little children On super-eight film video-cassettes Color ! Sound ! It's you, hot-tubbers, Finding it easier to suck in the rush of a whirlpool Than to speak after the pleasure has passed. It's you, Pink Hands Pink Face White Ass, Screaming and stomping your feet. The Old Blues Picker in the red silk shirt taps his long flat toe
And you want to screammmmmmmm him out of his addiction But he just closes his narcotic eyes. It's you, nigger, Bein' nigger, Callin' the nigger downstairs "NIGGER!" While you poke your nigger Roscoe, to his bride. It's you, actress With the commercial hair, com- Mercial lips, commercial skin, commer- Cial smile, commercial sin Cerity. It's you, Cowboy-Sailor-Skier, Player of football, basketball, Tennis, baseball, hockey. It's you, up there on the sixty-ninth floor, Drinking Chateau Au Briand From a newspaper thin glass, Listening to Rachmaninoff, Waiting for some Chicano sister To come lick your Chopin. It's you, Pork Chop firing your twenty-two caliber pistol at the front porch family from your buddy's beat-up wagon, avenging some asshole cousin's outrage over a dead dog bludgeoned by a blackjack pulled from his sister's purse. It's you, clowny politician
cultivating your crawl space with the humus of little boys, while bouncing aerobic dancers fry Friday nights by the ounce dreaming of the morning when the dance will be over and the feeding Can 1 2 3 next begin!
It's you, disco partners,counterpointing the wiggles of your hips in unison with a world that marvels at such profound rhythms. It's you, pumping iron in the basement, preparing for the fifteenth year when your Daddy upstairs will no longer pump your mother's face
bloody. It's you shop-lifted children, Taken away to sodomized slowly And then slaughtered on the silver screen. It's you, all of you, Divided and sub-divided, divided again Split into units smaller Than the smallest pronoun. It's you The cat has dragged you in. He'll feast on you tomorrow. The Cat, the hardcase cat, Cat on the Coffin.
You're string between his teeth.
jesse
nooooo