the orange cat behind a white curtain,
purring on the sill, liquid-metal eyes,
white stripes reached, papery. Midori.

you are a yawning anarchist. The moon
speaks to you through a television.
the customers of the house have tried
to stop you from pissing on their beds;
you keep squatting there whenever
they leave you home
alone and waterbowled with a blaring radio.

Clawing my chest, snot-nuzzling, I see
we’re both insane, even more insane when
looking at each other. Lately I get jittery
in supermarkets, for want of fur; your agile hips
inhabit me toward automatic doors.

I want, I want, I want, to be a free creature,
but keep falling apart wherever
hands are to pick me callously up,
relying on a bigger sickness to prop me smartly
in the ampitheatre. Lately I don’t want
to be a kept creature;

I feel at home wherever machinery is falling.