Elegy and dirge

The cat died recently. Or rather, we killed him. He was sick. Got very sick. Pretty sudden. Probably cancer. So he died. Or rather, we killed him. I killed him.

Went through some old notes the other day. Found something I had written the last time a cat died. Years ago. Ten years ago. Maybe more? Or less? I don’t know. I have a weird relationship with time. Anyway, it was better than I remember it. The text, that is.

I saw it the moment it happened
the moment that passed
Your eyes filled with panic
and then filled with nothing
the moment you stopped being
and turned into spoiled meat
Our days of pain gone
and now multiplied
your muscles relaxed
the silly smell
the sudden undignified humor
in that impersonal room
your body stiffening and
your eyes not closed, drying
your little body
turned into a little ash
in a brown paper bag
in a decomposable, biodegradable urn
(how practical)
and your new existence
as decoration in a bookshelf
How morbidly beautifully loving.


Another attempt at poetry

Revisions will surely follow, as I wrote it in just about ten minutes, but still. Fairly satisfied.

And Atlas Shrugged
As I bit him in the calf
He thought it nothing
But the heavens trembled
As his leg weakened
Life pouring out of him
Felled by me, so low
Bringing down a god of old
Och världen skälvde
När hans kropp slog ner
Och himlen krossades
Och Döden var allt

The Carcereal

The world, in all its glory,
is set up to contain us.
Every aspect of it
a prison for the flesh
working and creating the mind.
An omniscient Existance
where we no longer know
or care what is watching.
And I, knowing that there is
nothing to watch me
nothing that cares
nothing that I in any way can properly understand, or that operates according to parameters that could be said to, in our limited language and understanding thereof, show any interest in anything (he operates on a scale peculiar to himself),
I am despite this knowledge in no way free.
Every act of resistance brings me closer to the center.

An attempt at a little bit of Foucault-inspired death worship. Considering my lack of creative talent, I thought it turned out half way decent. In no way original, but that’s postmodernism for you.