The Cat Weather House

The weather cat is in
Open the dark red door
acrid shroud grabs your throat
stifle, cloy, still -
Quick, shut it!
Dried yellow urine smears the radiator
copper pipes greened, carpet rot
puddles on the wooden floorboard
layer of thick linoleum
small lumps of dissolving
compressed-pine cat litter
cat-fur garlands the cat-room
the ceiling, the lampshade, ridges of artex
window smudged with cat-nose
it's always ajar, a small gap
scrub the dried encrusted
lumps of shit on the grey linoleum
shovel the damp mass of soft
grains onto newspaper

the weather cat is in
kittens fade, the pulse of their rib-cages
slowing...slowing...desperate feed
with a milky liquid through syringes
Why weren't her nipples shaved
shallow breath, so light, no air
the narrow strip of earth
small grey islands float
the monochrome seas, the faded archipelago
a bright autumn day, days wink quicker
as quick slows, another litter
watching another litter die
to the unused curdled milk
your father on the phone
I want to get you to hospital

The weather cat is out
Mrs Carrington suggests we use
the impossibly small cat as a queen
Her steel, disregard, clutching ambition
casts a large shadow
identikit creatures flawed and worthless
outside pampered gated communities
early deaths, urine levels betray small kidneys
pre-disposition to a short, dissected life
arid, blinkered, enveloped, blind-alley aesthetics
playthings to gods we look on
In my dream I let the door open
on the gene-pool, watch cats
disappear into the undergrowth.

the weather cat is in.
long lines of cages
each with a bored cat witless cat
asleep or pacing, psychotic
Ah to run delirious banging open cages
I like the cat who scratched their judge.
The toys and gimmicks
cradle your objects of desire
keep infants happy
feathered birds torn in minutes
a ball circuits a plastic tube
fluffy, pink and purple
playpens for the toys
jump through the hoop one more time
transfer likeness to sweaters
socks, waist-coats, trousers, knickers
jackets, embellished kitsch
for the aesthetically dead
grabbed, blind and clutching aesthetic
universe of cats for smothering
in cats, cats on your head, your fingers,
toes, back, chest, cat on walls
in cupboards, on my chest, my head
walking into my waking dreams
breeding lilacs out of a dead cat

the weather cat is out
I link arms with you when I move in
I snap-to to duty, good soldier
protect the weak, keep them safe, you content
I wake up one morning with your blood on the sheets
I wear my wardens badge with pride
we hunt the escapees
ranging the countryside
scars from the protests of innocence
I find my little jokes
at badly drawn cats on your favourite sweatshirt
grow less comical as I stare down ranks
of blonde hair with expressionless blue eyes
Brunhilda pumps her lungs for a last song
I wonder at my marks, brown hair, epsilon minus.
Nervously, I notice my schar-führers badge:
a bow-tie with red, yellow and blue cats.
I wear a black uniform I try to shed
groan of weight at my back
large glace glimmer move slowly
run faster slowly, spot bound
little privileges and gifts to my favourite inmates
ignore the stray remarks about the garden
the piles of dirt under hut 14, roll-call twice a day
I get a strange look when I answer "here".
I open a door, shut it, open a door, shut it,
I cannot look over my shoulder
air lock and gasp into vacuum
make swimming motions away
my uniform scattered A14.