Swagazine Seven
Cat Poems, by Bill the Cat

Tfpt. Cat Poem Time!!!
   Bill poured out some dinner and enjoyed the warm pervasion; thoughts reduce ta simmer while he downs his daily ration. If he takes a little more, it might go to his head; sometimes he goes overboard an wakes up outta bed. Sometimes Bill arises an he finds a whole day's past; Cats enjoy surprises, like when time goes extra-fast. Ack.

   The radar-roadster manned by pigs was seekin Cat-collision; p'raps a few too many swigs had fried the driver's vision. Bill lurched quickly forward while the auto grazed his feet; if he were any slower he would still be on the street. Mumblin up a thankful prayer, Bill takes another route; careless ones are everywhere, so we should all watch out.

   Bill goes inta Borders Books ta thwart the stiflin heat; ignorin all suspicious looks, he grabs himself a seat. He's the worst-dressed fellow in the whole disgusting shop; no one there is mellow, but at least it's free of cops. Bill heads for the magazines an executes his crime; who would guess his grungy jeans contain this month's High Times?

   Bill's foundation's been devoured by termites and decay; growin weaker by the hour, he totters every way. His pipes produce a rusty stream, his beams are water-logged; his brain is like an old latrine that's always gettin clogged. Trapped inside his dismal dive, this Cat don't often purr; they say that Cats possess nine lives, but this one ain't so sure.

   Bill the Cat's impetuous, his impulses intrusive, but fate is often treacherous when logic's so elusive. Rarely does the Cat make sense, with thoughts of murky stew; he's prone ta mental accidents; folks tell him, "Get a clue!" Life's not very pleasin when your nature is imbalance; but what Bill lacks in reason he makes up for with his talents.

   Frightful notions in his brain ensure he gets no rest; psychic specters ascertain that Bill remains depressed. Plagued by his unruly thoughts, this Cat's a wretched guy; pourin out another shot, he wonders when he'll die. Questions act like acid rain an fears like gnawin rabbits; how can Bill divert his brain from its destructive habits?

   His skull's a home for mosses an his brain is outta date; at night he turns an tosses while his mem'ries percolate. Bill's childhood seemed so cheerful cause he never needed cash; now he's old an fearful as he guards his Catnip-stash. As a youth he liked ta fish an what he caught he cooked; now there's nothin in his dish, an he's the one who's hooked.

   Bill ain't too pretentious, he prefers ta be himself: a Cat who's lost his senses, an a Cat who's lost his health. His vision's often double, an his voice is just a croak; his breath comes out in bubbles, an his thoughts resemble smoke. He hoped ta be an actor who would make the girl-Cats swoon, but he's a minor factor in a second-rate cartoon.

   Bill smoked up another bowl an watched the dyin flame; he's not unlike that lump o coal, but who's he gonna blame? His heart is weighed by endless sin, his live's gone up in smoke; Bill's never had much discipline -- and neither did his folks. They bought him all they afford, an tried ta fill his needs; but in their son they'd merely scored a useless bag o seeds.

Spft. Cat Poem Time!!!
   Just as life seemed easy, like he'd made it through the gloom, Bill starts feelin queasy, an a shadow starts ta loom. His funds are all depleted since he bought that quarter-ounce; cash is sorely needed cause his checks are sure ta bounce. Soon he's gonna lose his phone an only source o light; then he's gonna be alone, an trapped in endless night.

   When he's sick o people an their endless machinations, Bill invades the steeple of his own imagination. Indulgin in his heresy, pursuin every vision, he's free of fate's conspiracies, an social inhibition. Then he wakens on the rug, an he's again in grief; reveries resemble drugs: their hold is much too brief.

   Scramblin every single way, Bill's runnin outta luck; if he goes on in this way he's bound ta self-destruct. Vultures circlin overhead confirm what he suspects; but when the Cat is finally dead, who'll come ta pay respects? "If he'd been a barrister he wouldn't know the laws; the Cat was just a character entrapped by fatal flaws."

   A day without a taste o pot's a room without a couch; a night without a coupla shots is sure ta breed a grouch. Bill can't go without his booze an dried up bags o plant; money's all he's got ta lose, an lose much more he can't. Why can't they concoct a pill that's plentiful an cheap, cures you of your every ill an helps you get ta sleep? Why can't they invent a drug that lasts a thousand hours, gives your brain a hearty hug, an turns your weeds ta flowers?

   A garbage can inspector wearin mottled dungarees, Bill's a soda can collector an a halfway-home for fleas. Aware o money's wrath, he resides among the poorest; he goes down every path, tryna find a peaceful forest. He came upon a park, found a bench an took a nap; he dreamt about an Ark but awoke in pigeon crap.

Tfpt. That brought tears ta Bill's bloodshot eyes. Cat Poem Time!!!
   Bill was feelin mellow as he faded inta black, breathin like a bellows with a needle in its back. Dreamin 'bout descendin down a twistin flight o' stairs, he's tumblin towards an endin to his worthless earthly cares. When his limbs become inept an Bill can move no more, he makes it to the final step -- an finds there ain't a floor.

   Lackin any leverage, or access to the Gods, Bill imbibes his beverage, an contemplates his odds. He wants ta leave the city, but it's got him in a trap; life's a boring ditty when your rhythm sounds like rap. Suckin down his potion like a beast from someone's lab, Bill dreams about the ocean like a homeless hermit crab.

Ack, just say Phhbbbbbbbbbbtt!!! Cat Poem Time!!
   The paucity o' sleepin pills demands a clumsy quest; threatenin noises hinder Bill from gettin any rest. Termites munchin on the walls are neighbors he resents; they compete with drunken brawls and auto accidents. Somethin's scrapin on the floor like piles o' rusted chain; cops are poundin on the door ta confiscate Bill's brain.

   The people on San Andres got a different way o life; Bill won't get a hand-raise, though he's apt ta get a knife. Once he went into the bar ta have a coupla beers; he received a nasty spar with unrelentin sneers. Livin in the barrio, Bill knows he's been misplaced; should he steal a stereo, or tryta change his race?

   Have you ever gone out late on some peculiar urge, wandered down ta lower State an watched the freaks converge? The Roaches of Humanity is how they're sometimes known; lackin wits an sanity, they gnaw on scraps an bones. These creatures are invidious, their presence makes you ill; most o them are hideous, an one o them is Bill.

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Bill the Cat has been a regular visitor to the Santa Barbara computer bulletin board scene for many years, always posting messages of poetry in a completely anonymous setting.


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