Cat In Communication With Distant Planets

Cat in communication with distant planets 
thinks you would be more interesting if you were
a fish
or a cardboard box.

Distant planets communicate that personal transformation is possible.
Fins or corrugation become you.
Get cracking. 
__________

timely feline advice courtesy of Sunday Muse #85.

Bonus advice: don't settle. Become a fish IN a cardboard box. Your cat will thank you.

Death and Night

Death and Night were obliged to share a room after their brother, Morning, was born.

Death sat smoking a cigarette, bad-mouthing Morning. "Fuck that little bastard. They think the sun shines out of his ass." 

"Did you wear my black sweater again, bitch?" asked Night, fuming. The neck is all stretched to shit." Frowning, she tossed it on the bed.

"Well excuse me, Your Highness," drawled Death. "See if I ever loan you a tampon again." 

Death and Night were sisters, but while Night was always being invited to every soiree, Death only got random attention from tubercular poets who thought she was a Goth.

"Morning, you little ray of sunshine, come in here and let your sissy give you a nice hug."

"Piss off, Death." 

Death ignored him and dragged on her ciggie. "I think I'm adopted," she complained to Night. And fuck your stupid sweater. Things aren't meant to last forever, yanno."

Night was too busy smearing moisturizer onto her skin to answer, obsessed as always with her sensitivity to sunlight and her insomnia.

Death and Night were sisters. Night was beautiful and mysterious. Their brother Morning was the very definition of youthful charm. As for Death, people avoided her and said she smelled bad. She got fired from Lowe's for making all the flowers wilt. It's sad, but there it is. As soon as Night left to go take a shower, Death picked up her black sweater and pulled furiously at it, really fucking it up good. Then she sat down, lit another cigarette, and smiled like a serene-ass Madonna in a painting.
_________ 

for the mini-challenge.

The Big Book Of Russian Haiku

The Big Book Of Russian Haiku is missing from its shelf
in the Chrysanthemum Room of the Glorious Proletariats' Library.

Five librarians,
each of them an opium dream of precisely measured sensuality,
and all of them wearing dark-framed eyeglasses and 
spit-shined riding boots,

Persuade me to wait exactly seven minutes while they submit
my request to the appropriate bureaus.
There is a carp pond
and a jar of startlingly blue ink pens.

If they can locate The Big Book Of Russian Haiku for me,
I can hold it like a discus,
and break the jaw of my old professor with it;
he betrayed the revolution
by watching baseball and taking up Buddhism. 

My time in the Chrysanthemum Room is nearly done,
and I can hear ten unstoppable leather boots approaching down the hall.
They tell me the book is gone
lost to the Russian winter,
and besides, what use anyway, to have it?

Then they invite me to share their samovar,
samizdat, 
and sable fur they favor
for reading Pushkin by candlelight with library patrons
taken--one at a time--into their confidence.
________ 

For copyright reasons, I can't include the image that inspired me, but you can view it HERE.

 

Lune

On the Moon, a girl can be what she wants.
Strangled critics turn blue and bounce away.
White cat on the sun side, black on the dark.
It's all avec fromage at restaurants.
She can spend all day on a roundelay,
and next to nothing on a place to park.
On the Moon, a girl can dress as she please--
skirt to her ankles, her hips, her knees.
Moon ring, moon pendant, moon necklace, moon cuff.
Black leggings with five-pointed stars and stuff.
She is Queen of seas that hold no water,
and boats with sails that nonetheless brought her.
On the Moon a girl can swing side to side
in a silver hammock to charm the tide.
_____

A silly sonnet for your Monday.

 

A Canine Cautionary Tale

The dog who chewed the couch
insisted at first that the sectional had offended God--
and other odd statements,
finally blaming the previous dog, which had died.

Nothing could make the dog admit
that it had worried and bit and torn the fabric
in a manic effort
to find out if any food was hidden inside.

The dog eventually hired a lawyer
in an effort to be coyer,
and declared that he hadn't even been there.
I almost believed him...

...until he started on the chair.
_______

Froshus Bear!

Beware:
froshus
bear!

Froshus
bear?!?
Where?!??

(dun worry, Teddy.
I save you!)


a little bit of Monday fun from Shay's Word Garden.