poem
WRITTEN:
1993, 26 years
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
This was constructed from notes I scribbled on a deconstructed cigarette packet whilst I was in an illegal state of mind and hiding in the bathroom of the house of friends of one of the losers I hung out with at the time (see also Hokee and Unblock). Later that night we went out to a nightclub (which used to be the TomTom Club in the 80s, which was very good, unlike the place it became in the early 90s) and I had a horrible time, thus the high point of the evening was talking to the gorgeous black cat, whose name was Lucy, which belonged to one of the residents, whose name was John. For the sake of the setting of the poem I wrote about myself in the third person and a a resident of the house, which I wasn't.
She liked John's cat
That was her only redeeming feature
In every other respect she was useless
The cat liked her or didn't like her
As it suited it
The cat was indifferent
Knowing someone would pet it
Eventually
Someone in the house would pet it eventually
And so she was disregarded
By the cat
And by everyone else in general
In all truth
She didn't know
Who John was
He was just someone who lived in the house
Like she did
But vastly more important, she was sure
Because when she joined in conversations
She felt they resented her
Felt she wasn't authorised to speak
Felt she should stay in her room and only come out at night
Like a mouse