THE EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS OF THE FUCKED-UP INDOOR REINDEER.
I, Steelton, of feline biorhythms,
fell into the Chinese bed
of my night garden. Not even drunk.
Later, picked spring's baby slugs
from my arms, dressed my wounds.
Consciousness, the Google-simulator,
waited deviously at the EXIT runway of dreams.
Took baby steps into the Misleading Wonderful World.
I need to get my shoddy astrology
and my laundry done. The fed are bedroom cats
and I ignore them anymore. The only threat
is the Moon. If she UNSUBSCRIBES,
you may begin to genuinely worry.