Thoughts of Evilcat

I.

Those unctious things with thumping feet
They make a billious din, and it
is not desired. I think I will
devour them, spill
their eye-blood on the street.

I'll rig a spit
and roast them first, a moderate
punishment, but yes. I think I'll kill
those unctious things with thumping feet

who proceed daily, past the pit,
the mine, the bone-gulch of my great
and sky-wide gaze. Until
now, for now my mind is made. I'll
skewer, gut, eliminate
those unctious things with thumping feet.

II.

That cheap siamese with ears that are moths
begs to be clipped. Those won't-be-still growths
should be run through with pins and mounted
on these bricks. I won't be hounded
by their incessant ticking. Oaths

of death were sworn for less! Troughs
filled with heads, bowels minced to broths.
I should at least by now have punted
that cheap siamese with ears that are moths

into the road. A hundred wroths
can't match my wroth. Truths
that burn are not as true as her confounded
ears' distracting. I'll see her blunted,
gouge an expert line across
that cheap siamese with ears that are moths.

III.

Fat dogs!
A few tugs
on the lead would sort them.
Squat as a totem
each bastard trots,

face like a badger's arse hammered with rocks,
stares at me vacantly. Ye gods,
how can I not hate them?
Fat dogs

who stink of fox.
I swear if one cocks
his twig of a leg near me, no post mortem
will identify the victim.
Hunden sind verboten. Out, foul Spots!
Fat dogs!