The Cat's Singed Nose

I cherish only that scent, of which little remains, without means for furniture, without means for health, with frugality towards decay, like backwater royalty, for whom I built that bridge there.

I'm bored with boredom, empathy eludes me, for I mourn in the cow and in the Chinese child, and I cry when a modern magazine writes in German, yet I should laugh as an aged Voltaire¹.

Chickens must eat, the earth needs tilling, the pig must be sliced. If optimism is bliss and pessimism poverty, if cravings are just, and if Volkswagen then sedan, really, I never wanted and still don't want to live.

Act one and act four, and act two and act three. Impossible to force myself to embrace trash. I'm as artsy as God can be at four in the morning at a banquet. Welcome to my world.

I died yesterday, not today, I'll postpone it to tomorrow. Every day I feel my body more, hugging myself on the balcony, because I'm cold, because of the bitter taste in my mouth, because my throat burns. I was supposed to collect a fur from the laundry, heavy and dirty before, and somehow I liked it.

I believe in none of the gods, in no chant, no psalm, no indictment, for I'm normal above normals. I drink wine in the same place as an activist wearing Clarks², so sir, please, no need to sharpen horns.

I also believe in no writer, in no verse, no thought or idea, in no rhyme for a cigarette. I still believe in that cat who singed a piece of its nose. In no theatre do I believe.

And I don't believe, and I don't believe, and I renounce all that is cool, and all that is good, and all that is malicious, and all that is beery, and all that is winey, and all that there is funny and naive.