The cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to him.
I, said the cat to his furry spouse,
have nine (or is it eight) lives to go - -
(I don´t count them that meticulously
anymore - being too old)
- - but you, Mr. Münchausen
pissing in your pants from fear to loose
your beloved breathing space on this
stinking planet (only having one of the above
mentioned lives left) created a monstrous lie
by pulling yourself, I have been told, by the hair
(with your own shivering hands) out of a swamp
- with horse and all -
somewhere in the lower part of lower
Prussia to save your single fucking life
intending to transform yourself into a teller of tales
- - even riding on a cannonball with flowing locks
to surmount a siege in lower Niedersachsen -
A constructor of myths, you were, Mr. M. - even
a notorious liar after your pitiful death -
creating an illusory delight for the European
self-conceit with syphilitic undertones
in your aftermath.
(I could - of course - also have mentioned
Indonesia, Surinam, Loconamia, Iraq, Honeyland, Burpshit,
Sweden, Shitomania and Patricia Onissella – bless her soul)
but I don’t
being a common creature with no need for
foresight and saintlyhood, just a mere cat, I don´t
stick my delicate and vulnerable snout into
other muckrackers’ business.
Riding on a cannonball (harr-harr!)
Riding on a smelly (ach, with unmentionable delight)
- and I mean smelly - tabbycat ball makes me feel wild
with sweet everlasting crushingly intestinity.
Mixing happinesss and sadnesss simultaenlousy -
growling with joy. But that is another story.
Always untold stories untellable -
Which reminds me - there are more stories
to be told.
So storytellers and liars: tell!
Even the above mentioned Mr. M. - tell your
Write; tell stories about us and the stinking
dumps in which we live. Tell about the furry, four legged
miaouing partcipants in this everlasting rat race
that never seems to end
(there I got her; or was it him? - oh what crunchy
delicate testicles !-- it must have been him – sim sala bim)
Rat off, baby, mouseingly, on naked feet
decapiatded & detailed, so rosily and sweet
Yeah, write,: you two legged cats - all but furry,
shivering in bed on beautiful winter´s days, not
gripping the chance to wake up to
the regular dimension stuffed with terror,
humiliation, disappointments, harassment,
ridicoulously barking dogs, arrows in the heart,
pain in the ass, crumbling love, partying vultures,
deserted vulvas, undernourished assholes, &
naked transvetites, the stupid neighbour´s stupid
cat (which actually showed up to be a dog),
dried up hydrocephali - and the like.
Write, you bastards!
My beloved homely stray dogs of
Bark like mad &
write of Vivaldi - ridden by his
rheumatoid arthritis, of Leonardo da Vinci´s
white cane and opaque spectacles.
Write about love and ugliness!
& all the things in between
of hate and beauty and faulty mirrors.
Erect your pricky pencils!
and let your failing memory
entertain the crowd with lies unknown.
Fling your carpet into orbit and just let it stop by Venus´
left breast for a diminutive eternity, leaving a coma
oozing with the stuff that doubt is made of.
The cat is writing by himself, and all pages are alike to him.
Grope for your pencils, just landed in the outskirts of
Kuala Lumpur - having been through a rough treatment
in the cosmic bidét. Pick them up and write lies so immense
they become true. Don´t listen to your non-exsisting inner
voice. Listen to your utter despair, and let it fecundate
(with tender paws - - and merry genitals) the subsiding Earth.
Put, with a light lovingly touch, your lips to your whizzing
Mother´s deep-sea-, mountain-, plains-, volcano inflicted
body and suck the wisdom out of her innermost cunt.
Not for enlightenment´s sake, but for the sake of true
endarkenment that will push you (ever so lightly) towards
the fountains of the river Nile of the mind.
Stay, stay - lay, lay and wait for the first sparkle of the
never failing morning light - sparrow-shaped as it is…
Lock up your thoughts for a billionth of a second raised to
the 12th power, and experience a cat´s life - and death -
beeing in the neighbourhood of a sweet and orderly scented God
Keep on lying Mr. Münchausen; you have filled me with rage
and amusement. So be it. So has Jorge Luis Borges &
But I will never unlick the shit I
providently placed on your enchanted,
seductive shoe mr. M.
* Erik Frisch