Perhaps it’s better to keep weirdness silent, secret –
not from any squeamishness about perversities,
but because when any unagreed-upon sneak peek at
incongruity perceives its untoward disarray, adversities
abound and stay. As feline Nikita and his lady-bud Rita
will permit us to appreciate in their peculiar tale
of how when they awoke one dawn the Bhagavad Gita
spilled from their intoning lips, we’re sure to our avail –
till it ripped the veil of quietude, let the rude world rush
at them to take a juicy bite out of their aberration.
Nikita, once a malleable cat, shrank to the static hush
and shadow Rita is, stunned by how predation
trumps elation so malevolently fast, it eats the news:
if you’re remotely in the headlines, you’re the food.
In face and light of this, both cat and woman choose
not to reveal their whereabouts. Their souls, un-shoed,
slip enlightened toes into Platonic grass, take their due
at last: that they’re the ne plus ultra heads-of-class.
And anyone who doesn’t know they are, including you,
must be assigned incontrovertibly the status of an ass.
Oh, it’s just Nikita and his Rita getting weird again.
More reason one should keep them under wraps.
One day they’ll find what we have found: a new oblivion –
where moons don’t shine and bugles don’t play taps.