Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no on like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!

Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!

He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair—
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!

And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless of investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!”—but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

On my First Son
By Ben Jonson



Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage,
And if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry."
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.

I long to be sat in summers youth, that feels as crisp as my pages.

I am always sat on my empty bookself.
A one of a kind, first edition, tragedy.
My authors working on projects much more important than I.

Chapter 1:
summarises the bliss of fresh flesh, unmarked, unripped, ungrammatical because nothing ever mattered.

By my final chapter I had lost my friends, abandoning all hope I lost everything, as my protagonist writhes in agony from heartbreaks that are as fresh as when they began.

On my bookself, dust collects by my blurb (which is only half unwritten), I cannot move though my spine is unbroken.
Half of my contents, speak of brighter times.
Times of infactuations appearing in spring.
Times where playing in the streets was an everyday thing.
Times of scraped knees, bruised arms and hair which was once neatly plaited turned into tendrils spiraling out of control.
Times of being called in for tea.
Being told to remember suncream otherwise your baby doll face will turn to a shrimp.
Times where the nettles sting would be sweeter than the honey of a bee.

As every day closes each chapter, I know they will continue while I stay stuck in my days. Just a scap of literature upon a shelf with no map nor compass. I sit on my shelf and come 5:43 every evening, I watch. The streetlights flicker on and illuminate brighter every second.
I remember.

A happier time.

Before I was written.

Before my pages became tattered and torn.

Once again, I long to be sat in summers youth, that feels as crisp as my pages

We all get rich, it fixes every thing, c'mon

Initial Public Offering.
Made inclusively to
all the children of all the wombed men,
but one,
by now, none else, for eons, unmarked
save in ashes under ancient tells,
none of these people, these *** of the gods,
and the one,
daughter of man who signed off on this story.

-live forever-

Thinking attracting needs,
deeds done that send funds, to wipe debt from mind.
Bring the wizard,
strip him bare, grind him  to gore and gristle,
bone blood and all the biles, shake it up,
jiggle in the sack of skin, watchit
burst and puddle
in the flame,

is this pyrex? See

Bunsen burning in my brain, a mixture now,
oh wow
Schmachten-burger, cheese, *** of enlightened
hippie jews, shapers shaped in common fashion,
after the sixties finished, there arose guides to the goy
who knew nothing of the mystery,
save that Alice Toklas was not gay, in the Nineties way

Oy-vey, cultural appropriation, Jah, Jah is ours, as you
well know, we have esoterica galore, here buy
a mezuzah, ya, gutglück - all ah, ala phylacteries
raditional-rootish,
and these use that same parchment, goat skin,
very kosher halal and all, done
under strictest supervision, seeing super see, is
something the literate,
Phoenicians, Shem shah-mans, and their accountants,
first
discovered the territory within the skull of man,
was open to other minds,
in matters of wit
inventions'nshit, set a will to a way, watch,

come the future, we are famous…
who invented the wheel?

watch, watch, it winds around, a motion, anchored
to a plain truth in the left cerebral sorting station,
reflecting back,
******-rectumly linearly right co- oh, I see

cor-rect or co-recht, co-right, if nobody's wrong.

But there is no hateful god who made hell for those
who,
honed as honed may be, in punctual efforting
so
sharp, even on thorny issues,
motes
floating in the occular consomme,
slightly briney aqueous humor,

ha

to make a point in time to pierce anything
in my way

see clear,  plumb the depths truth's base idea,
some things wish vehemently to be known,
must-er-ion, quest, ionic tipping
point whence the ring of eight
slips a point, and specs call
ion ion whither went thee?
ion, zion sion, see the gleam,
golden oil,
yes,
yes indeed, I did, I did pray
for this,
or something sorta like it,

peace on earth, good will toward man,
reconciliation complete perceived as done.

Can you hear me?
Did I lose loose links to long lies, left tied
to the stakeholders souls?

When did we realize the difference?
It must have taken years, and now, we see, match
the noses,
the eyes, or deeper even, look into the whites
of their mother's eggs…

see and know, or trust me, I know,
one wombed man's children, one,
the officially loneliest number. One
wom'man, woe,
science,
not Genesis, or Enuma Elish,
or the story from Braiding Sweetgrass,

but, old, old stories, told, once, at least,
by a witness,
-- it was as if the bone and all it was,
was altered, by a bit, a Y got a leg, or lost one,
I do not know, but bone of my bone,
was that one little bit,
more in one way, at the stem, and as branching
began, the one had daughters, who bhor daughters,
while from that generation forward,
the many others,
bore no children of any breathing form,
soon,
for this was not so long ago, mitomom, you know,
she had sisters and cousins and aunts
and a mother who had a mother
and a father who had a mother.
None
of the eggs in those wombs, ever lived to now,
but the eggs of the one wombed man we must
accept, she who shaped all after ever began
that instant when,
only one line remained, and there was no war.
No reason, at the time, but soon
in geo time,
we grew apart, branching on rivers
when we found them on our journeys from the east

- I think she
was likely deep dark brown, she links me to you,
stem cell level
and below,
logos in touch,
the code of silence. A cone, yes, the cone
of silence,
rolled from fool'scap, common in the great leaps
forward,
through the ages, as sons and daughters were born,
but
once,
something occurred,
a virus, or a leaven, or fish, perhaps,
rancid oil while the child waited for its form
to form in the wombed man, now known
as mom. She,
Mitochondrial source of the code that keeps us alive.
The same basic way batteries in blood
have been made since knowing
clickt.

Universes, realms of human reasons, piled in
lattice work bits and pieces,
joints and joiners,
that fit in particular places to form certain shapes
of things to come,
it is all very miniaturized, nano nano scale…

yes, did you know him, Mork?
I never did.

_ he does that so you don't think him arrogant,
ashamed to admit the use of the mind of christ
in a secular win the game way.

But what the hell, knowing ain't cheating, if you know
what's right,

wanna place a wager on the Robinhood IPO?
I gotta plan, see…
we go into such and such a city, we buy, we sell,
---intshallah
but this is the secret,
we sell debt,
you owe me, right, it works, it always works,
give and it is given unto you,
pressed down,
running over -- goods and services, nothing taxable
or tithe-able,
riches with no sorrow, added.

You interested? One time buy in. Two bits.

Îmi deschid gura și e fum
De parcă winston m-ar fi luat și câștigat
Ca pe un trofeu.
Cancer deraiat de eu.
Ciuda zbiară.
Înghite ca o termită toată camera asta din lemn răstignită în casă-goală
Roade păr, unghii, gânduri, șoapte
Speranțe.
Deșarte.
Împletite în părul unei alte eu.
Una ce nu e răzbunătoare.
Una rămasă copil stingher pe o strada de București mai puțin tulburătoare.
Dumbrava Nouă portal spre Strada Bîrca numărul 15,
O mișcare, 7 fețe.
Ilinca minte, Ilinca doare, Ilinca crește, Ilinca ucigătoare.
Ce mârşav gând, să scap de mine.
Mă holbez la oameni poate uit și revine
Viața într-un moment maniacal al zilei.
Un spate îndoit, un umăr întins pentru tine
Să-l mângâi, să-l fărâmi în palme
*** dorești.
Eu ard dar am răbdare.
Să pier ca cerul dimineții în favoarea verii.
Rupt din soare.

Se pare ca știi totul
Și doar a predica
Nu văd ce rost are
Aici prezența mea
Când ce rezultă-n mine este numai sânge
Dat pe dinafară pentru a te unge
Pe răni tu, înțeleptule
Ai țipat destul să-mi tai urechile
Furia ți-a ajuns dincolo de cer
Și cântecul ți-e plin numai de "disper"
Si gol de "ajutor"

Însă nu e "gol"
De "spune-i tu pentru mine"
Ca și când ar fi ok să obții
Tot ceea ce vrei fără sa îți ții
Singur șaua vieții
Se simte incredibil și-mi pare impecabil
De bine plănuit, căci nu ești responsabil
Dacă nu merge bine, doar n-ai spus tu ceva
Erai prea ocupat cu a te alerga
Cu furia cu mânia și mândria ta

Toți sunteți furioși și intitulați
Să aveți dreptate, să nu vă schimbați
Toți sunteți titani și restul sunt cei proști
Se pare că sunteți destul de inimoși
Să vă iubiți pe voi suficient încât
Să vă protejați de orice v-ar provoca mai mult
Perspectiva asupra realității
Asupra iubirii sau a maternității

Iubirea mea nu pare
Să aibă loc aici
Și nu-s vreun salvator
Ca să vă scap de frici
Mai ales atunci când clar ca din topor
N-ați sugerat niciunul că vreți vreun ajutor

Suferiți că vă place și asta-i adevărul
Pe care-l văd eu, nu *** sa fiu eroul
Când refuzați puternic orice implicare
Care să vă fie puțin provocatoare.

Nu vă doriți salvare, ci numai validare.

Sclavi ai vieții voastre, ah cât e de trist
Dar păreți comfortabili în lacrimi și abis
Și când am încercat o mână sa vă-ntind
M-am topit și-am plâns, era mult prea acid

De libertatea-i munte, îmi sunteți plini de mare
Și-am să vă mulțumesc, căci nu e de mirare
Că busola mă îndrumă pe altă cărare
Și vântul dintre pânze îmi zice așa tare

"Ești doar eroul tău, și orice chemare
Ce vine dinspre ei, doar cere ca atare
O respingere simplă, fără vreo formă
De sentiment de ură sau țipete de normă "

Nu vreau sa vorbesc cu nimeni despre nimic
Și am s-o țin simplu, nu am s-o complic
Dacă îmi aduceți acest zgomot în casă
Sper să mâncați bine, dar nu la a mea masă,
Am sa vă anunț că nu e pentru mine,
Și am s-o zic repetat și dacă tot nu-i bine
Sau nu are valoare încă ce vă spun,
Sper să fiți iubiți, dar pe al meu drum
Nu vă mai *** permite vreun fel de access
În realitatea mea sau să îmi abuzez
Iubirea și răbdarea când văd așa de des
E loc doar de-un om, și drumu-i deja mers
De mine.

Așa că baftă voua,
Și cu bine mie.
Sau poate e pe dos,
Nu vreau sa stiu,
In fine.

_M.

Îmi alunecă ochii în gură
Nu mai contează câte ore am dormit.
Mă uit în oglindă și știu că mă-njură,
Zilele dinaintea mea deja au trecut până am clipit.
Și urlă viața după mine:
"Ce-ai făcut cu mine curvo ?"
*** face orice orgoliu cu sine.
"mi-am futut o zi întreagă pentru o amintire redată la viteza disperării turbo"
Vorbesc cu moartea în fiecare seară și îi spun că nu știu ce vreau mai mult ***, viață sau să scap de oboseală.
Îmi spune sexul e o iluzie la fel ca viața
Și oboseala stă doar cât e lăsată.
Ce viață deraiată!
Nu-ți lași ochii să se închidă dacă ai fost prea onestă.
Și dacă dormi, te trezești cu regret cusut în țeastă.
Eu nu răspund
Eu nu vorbesc
Eu nu stau la rând
Eu nu știu să mă feresc
Și totuși încă trăiesc.
Mama a zis că ceața e a lui Bacovia
Eu cred că nu știe nimic despre ea.
Nu așa funcționează lumea.
Tata a zis că mi-am ales soarta
Mi-am negat fericirea și viața
Că mi-am tăiat șansele pentru alta.
Eu mi-am propus să nu mai văd
Să nu mă mai las urmărită
Coruptă de ură, oamenii se lipesc când eu vreau să dispar din orbită.
Vreau să fiu într-adevăr uitată.
Nu-mi permit să fiu iubită
Nu-mi permit alt suflet în purgatoriu.