The Cat Killer of Priyapat
Number 570 knows about the decay of nuclear fuelled power plants, but Number 1760 is a cat killer. He knows about the end of cats, the methods and the reasons. Even the kittens, yes even them. Their eyes the scoop and curve of headlights – yes, innocent and hardly born etc. but still everyone's following the program and the reasons and they’re justified. On the outskirts of town, as far out as the scoured-clean fairground, skins blur into one great scalped hide. They cement the reasons there.
Known facts – a young soldier always shoots to miss, but is trained to kill thoroughly and they hope the training eventually works. In September, my nephew goes to the Army. He says he'll do what they say, though he’s never respected anybody in his life. He'll be 16.
In another town, there's a killer of cats for fun. So cruel they mistake his murders for a fox. In other towns and every nation, men kill men with their untrained hands and men kill women easily.
There are methods and degrees for everything, reasons and dispensation. I met a priest once in a side tunnel by the Sistine Chapel who opened up his robe to show me snide black market absolution, lists of crimes and ecumenical penalties. Bribes work on God it seems.
“Everything is degrees” he told me,
“It’s not the act that’s wrong; it’s the way you do it,
It’s not the action that’s wrong; it's if you like it”.
Ask the Cat if he is God, if he believes this. Always ask the dead about the author of their journey.
Buck
Come to me, soft horned creature
My hand is out, food scattered on my palm
You are of improbable nubs and provisions
You are of bubble weapon of rubber tongue
You are of itch that wants scratched
You are of sprung desire, shoot bulb A
nd rub nubuck. You are tree bone,
Skin stim, plushy cover
You are the great God pan in fake fur
A swell of toys, an implant
An embarrassment of riches
A too much
Go further, you
Into the tall grass
Scratch your new self against
the Crippled tree
You are boypart girlfaced mangabeast
antennaed for transmission
You feed, so fierce My Prince,
Cloven and Glorious
The summer ripened in your sugary machine
And by your grace
Where you tread and crush
All the unreal pastures burst full green
Sarah Davies is a poet from Merseyside, living in Bedford and working in her bedroom. Writing keeps being interrupted by life stuff. She has been published in magazines such as The Blue Nib, Hungry Chimera, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Rialto, Iota and Magma, and is currently editing a pamphlet about extinct professions.
