Illustration

Pionerskaya - walking home one evening, across the Supermarketerially lighted streets I seemed to see a troupe of yellow cats following me. Not literally of course, but quite potently in my minds eyes they were denouncing their absence from my stories. These straight streets of ice and snow piled high high high  and reflective rectangular towers  piled higher were their stalking ground.

The yellow cats were out hunting in a pack and their coats were shining lemon curd, their eyes muted stars (some strange in-between colour) .  They turned to me all together.

‘You’ve never written a story about us/
You’ve never even thought of us
Nor a song not a word
We mellow yellows
Slink as ghosts
Along the margins of your pages.’

Their purr was deep and angry and slightly in discord so it seemed like some rough avant-garde orchestra.

‘Red cat blue cat
Did you forget the third
Primordial summerial cat.
Where did green cat come from
Don’t you wonder?