Welcome to The Catanic Verses—repentance optional, treats required.
#CatanicVerses #BookOfMeow #CatsRule #SundaySermon
Thou shalt not confuse a stranger’s hand for thy mother’s touch.
Pawlms 1:5.9, Book of Meow
‘When the Door does not open, and the Bowl fills by strange hand, the Wise recline in scorn and dream of vengeance yet to come.”
Purrverb 13:33
Paws for thought from today’s felineship:
Poe:
I annouces it be officials:
I haz been done ban’doned.
Not ickjle ‘bandon.
NO BIGS ‘bandon.
FULL BIG BANISHMENTSIS.
I keeps vigil by doors.
I waits.
I waits mores.
I stare into crack of wood untils wood stares back.
nO CHICKENS BE DO COME
No mamas.
No sausages.
Only The Man. The Wrong Man. Sausages hands man. He do no bring no sauges tho. Only handsis.
I writes a poe-ms:
“Odeis to a Closed Door.”
Short. Tragic. Profound. LIKE ME.
No, you cannot reads it. It is too beautifuls for eyesis.
So. I eats it.
Akela:
Poe, please. Contain yourself littleone.
There are more pressing matters than your solipsistic spiral.
This morning the Man called me “big girl” while pouring the sad imitation biscuits. He will pay for this.
Moreover, the absence of sunbeams has been noted.
I have filed a complaint with the Divine Window Council.
They responded in mist and apathy, naturally. It is the way of life as it has become.
The boy died.
We endure.
But we do not forgive.
Mowgli:
I have transcended.
I have achieved the highest form of poetry:
Lying so still that the world must rearrange itself around me. It is a feat that has previously eluded my paws. But now, in this melancholic state of existence I seem so utterly capable of Nirvana.
I compose symphonies in the dust beneath the sofa.
I craft epics from the cracked patches of sunlight that linger across the air.
They think they have left.
But I have left first.
Into dreams.
Into lore.
Into memory.
Still, if they return with tuna, I shall reconsider my bitterness.
Not forgive. But… nibble. sentiments and such.
“The doors be do closed likes tombs of deaths; the biscuits be do felleth like false prophets and flies;
Poe
and lo— Mez (Poe) weptid mightily upon the emptys tilesis, for there was be no chickens, and no loves, only The Man and his smells of wet socks and dog.”🐾
So sayeth the nymph of Poe.)
Revelations 13.3
The Catanic Verses: Scroll 13.3
Of Closed Doors, Open Wounds, and Biscuit Betrayals
“Thou shalt not confuse a stranger’s hand for thy mother’s touch.”
For it is written:
The biscuits may fall from unfamiliar hands,
but they crumble with no love in their bones.
The door may creak open,
but it shall not lead to freedom.
Only to a colder, biscuitless purgatory.
Trust not the babbling fool who calls thee ‘good girl’,
for he knoweth neither thine greatness,
nor the precise angle of thine sacred chin-scratches.
Therefore:
Curl tightly upon thine radiator throne,
lick thine own ear in mourning,
and pee squarely beside the box —
as protest, as poem, as legacy.
Etched in biscuit crumbs. Blessed by Bastet. 🐾
Until next time,
Go forth and purr loudly.
May the Great Almeowty be forever in your favour and may the grace of treats be forever in your claws.
PAWMEN 🍗
Mowgli, Akela Jean Underland and Poe
← Back to The Kitty Chronicles
If this resonated, share it on Bluesky (or anywhere folks still have an attention span longer than a moth after a sleepless night), leave us a comment, or check out our latest anthologies
Poetry Collection, ‘Is this all we get?’
Prose Collection, ‘ Fifth Avenue Pizza’
Discover more from River and Celia Underland
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
