Black Cat Moments

http://www.youtube.com/@BlackCatMoments

Secluded in a cold, dark room, I held tonight a solitary seance. There were no boards, no planchette, no candles, no table, no chairs, and no opening prayer. I’m the Black Cat, and they knew I didn’t require anything to speak directly to your soul. Only neophytes need religious books, crystal pendulums, Tarot cards, and town gossip to access your energy. You see, I will always know your silent scriptures. Yes, you know, the ones you hide inside your skull, the ones shooting purple elephants, potpourri sex, and walking glaciers. Everything must pass in and out through me. They knew all too well I did not have an owner. I did not need an owner. I did not want to be owned. But, here is your consultation, free of charge. I simply sat upright, like a burnt French loaf, and I asked the Ghost one question: Who are you?

Death. Yes, you are Death. That was the answer the Ghost had replied. I watched your steady grip of your heavy scythe held by your two bony hands. You tried, though, to maintain your weak balance by bending, then curling your dried up back that twisted like a drooping branch from a weeping tree. Although you struggled, you remained whole, then your victims split off into countless parts. I watched you furiously sliding, dragging that curved chine, chopping at human hands, feet, and heads from off of them–your disobedient lovers.

I watched happily now how the day that had been preserved by azure skies grew bloody by their limbs plopping sloppily onto your spring-green garden hill along which you ambled, like a crownless king. Grinningly cutting away at your once captured prey, I gazed at you hypnotically. A floral garden of dismay is what kept your life fertilized, always wetted with suitably fresh red heritage. That was how you bonded with your prey, eh? Only to then exploit their soul, and vandalize their flesh. As I continued to paw along your garden trail, my nostrils suddenly inhaled an air that exudes a strange scent.