It is the not-knowing.
Somehow that is more cruel.
Left in that trunk.
Not dead. Not alive.
I think it must be a zombie cat.
Poor zombie kitty.
Opens wide it’s mouth.
A little line of boood drips out.
And runs down that impossibly soft fir.
Oh, little feline.
Suspended between death and life.
It is a zombies lot to engage in strife.
And so it leaps from the trunk.
With a meow-roar.
If you spoke cat.
Roughly speaking, the translations:
If I have this whole thing right.
Which maybe I don’t.
But if I have this whole thing right.
If the little paws land on the juglar.
If the observer dies before he knows what hits him.
Then the world continues.
a zombie man.
And a zombie kitty.
Are suspended between death and life.
Waiting for someone to percieve this all.
The Zombie man,
slumps down the hall.
And if he sneaks up on his prey.
If his hands growing cold, beginning to rot already.
If they snap the neck of the poor receptionist…
If they snap her neck with sufficient speed.
If she is dead before she knows it.
There is a zombie kitty.
A Zombie man.
And a Zombie receptionist.
And so the cat.
Still unpercieved, in a way.
Still waiting in the trunk, in a way.
Waiting to have its fate resolved.
It finds a mouse but it does not play.
Jaws find the eyeballs of the little rat.
Jelly-like they ooze.
Zombie rat is born.
While zombie man and zombie receptionist wreak their havoc.
But then someone else sneaks into the room.
Throws open the trunk.
The kitty, meows.
None of it ever happened.