.
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.
.
.
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