My cat had 9 lives,
He gave 8 to my willingness to create impossible cuisines
of leek, onion, wanton, bone and whiskey
and 3 more to hand my flight to Dublin,

To meet the poets and see why they are dead,
To feed me soup that my grandmother made
A unique blend of garlic and potatoes that were green
And chicken broth and her picture, amongst other things,

She looked weary
As though it would rot
She smelled my soup
And said it wasn't hot

I can't make the soup
I can only pour a double shot.

Well surprise, surprise,
You were right,
drawers up my sleeve, move away from the cars
Do not step into the light

You were right

You were right about the Earth,
The grasses are fois gras and carbonated cats
The men were ghastly, they sleep on mats
The bazaars are noisy, the jobs are cruel

I am too broke to afford fuel

In these harsh economic catastrophic millenial hyperbolic cholera meddled opera of mice,

You were right father dear,
You were right.

I looked at my knees and knuckles of black,
I looked at my face, my eyes were sad
I looked at the ship sinking in the garden,
And just when I stepped in the road,
I saw these meadows of sheep and pubs of glee
Some drunk widowed man
Wanted to marry me
And I said to him
"My father was right, You are a disgrace get out of my sight"
And as he lowered his wife,

He said I had my father's eyes.

I'll probably call it sickness,
sickness of the mind,
the wrath of terrible timings,

I freaked out at escapades,
kind of a terrible night,
we are two people,

We don't want each other in our sights.

I am sick of it kindly,
Good sir, I will shapeshift into your complaints
I will be invisible and unsociable and kind of insane.

These pills aren't doing me any good
They are cheap from the local goodwill
They are made of rainbows and **** stained thoughts
And still I swallow them gladly.

I wonder how in a forest fire,
I walk with naked arms,
Take a spin,
give me a pill
Let me fight with your naked guns.

There was an Indian tale,
About the Indian sap,
Delicately wounded, delicately jabbed,
precariously tender, ostentatious sad
She was the Indian child of doom,
Her poetry was bitter and bad.

She wrote poems about the famine,
the *** of the crazy and the kind,
Often wrote about dreamers and pirates
And of the ill of the mind

Years and years have gone through,
She has yearned for the Odyssey of the great,
But all she wrote was the depression,
the depth, the sorrows and the hate.

She had written about the men
She had not known about,
She forgot their names, Mike or Rick
Or about the one that was stout

Well, what about the one that had hurt you,
Oh wait, all of them did,
This wasn't a circus or a mayhem
Or a story or a gist

She wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote
Till she could write no more
She realized she never knew herself
She was alone on the dance floor.

And gasping for air,
It is a polluted wasteland.
The way you unbutton that ghastly shirt
and sigh along your neck tie

Good sir, Do you want to step out for some air?
Cats and Dogs are dead everywhere

I push and pull
You pull and push
You had me inside a 5x5 cage,
Honey,
I wanted to die of old age;

I tied the tie in a loop
and forced fed you a month-old soup

You choked, I gasped
I developed a rash
Your face became blue
I love you too

And yet, when I cut your tie
There were tears in your eyes,
A story about Wanton boys and flies;

You broke my cage and let me free
But kept in you
A part of me.

I clean my room 10 times a week
Photos of my childhood and linen sheets,

Vacuuming its and bits here and there
But there's still dirt everywhere;

I try to save myself but I'm stuck,
I wake up inside a garbage truck.