China Kat by Matt Peters

China Kat

A Portrait of George

            Something about the familiar smell must have aroused my recollections, popped the cap, un-stopped the top, broke the binds and released myself, my old self, the previous me that I was when I was not this cat, this kitten, this kitty cat, when I wasn’t trapped in this furry hell.

That sharp sweet salivating smell of smoke — like tuna-chicken-pork treats — the sweet sickening smell of marijuana, tripped the lock, cracked the confinement of catmind and freed my human thought processes, allowed my previous retrogressions to regress, allowed my previous life to return, to return and illuminate.  That familiar smell, this pink patch of moisture picked up that perfume tenfold. Cat nose knows. The sharp familiarity stabbed through this convoluted mass of catmind, smoothed out the cat waves, cleared away the catspeak — fractured language of images — brought back sanity and reason to tortured twisted mental madness. I became sentient again, sentient yes, more than before, more than animate animal, before, yes before, I moved and was motivated by instincts, pure instincts — dumbly falling through my throwness — I had no knowledge, was not knowing of my predicament, my sick sick sentence.

But now, now I am able. Now, I know. Now, I understand. Now this kitty-cat banter is clear. Now, my furry hell is illuminated. Now, I see karma’s cruel justice; see the sick trick of reincarnation. This perpetual trap of repetition and addiction like Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence crossed with Buddha’s five hundred lives. Oh, late night amphetamine philosophies mix within my blender brain to help explain my fix, my junky-cat junky-fix, my furry-junky-hell. All my addictions replaced here with cat kind equivalents, a mystical karmic sentence for human gluttonies. One of seven, yes seven, seven deadly sins, seven years to one, now it’s seven in one.

So now, let me tell all. Yes, now that I know, I must tell to warn. Yes to warn. I must warn of this furry hell, this junky fix, this furry junky hell. I suffer in a furry reincarnated hell of kitty kicks, crazy cat addictions, permanent addictions never to be kicked.  I must warn all those still shooting, still snorting, still smoking, all those who will die nodding, nearly napping, for those who don’t kick, who don’t go straight. Example! I must be the example, example of what awaits, a warning of what’s in store for those who buy the ticket. An example day, one day, my day, one May day of my day with my vices, yes, one seven days, seven in one, one day with my vices, is all it will take. And they are all here, all my addictions, all my vices are here in this furry hell, all here masked in cat equivalents, morphed to fit my cat metabolism, cat chemistry.


            Mornings mean milk, yes milk, common thing for cats, but It is bad, they say. Lactose-intolerant, they say. Do not fill their bowls, do not fill their bellies with milk, it is poison to them, they say. Rubbish, false witness, they see wrong, out of order. They see kittens, kittens who overindulge, get vomits and shits. But older bolder cats can and do build up tolerances. They do not see older bolder cats on the purr in a sunbeam, sensitive cat cells soaking up the vitamin D.  Vitamin D cat, soaking in the milkbeams, lovely lovely lovely milky milk. Must stalk the milky milk. Lactic vitamin D nodding into the sleepy purr.

Stalking — stalking — sniffing — searching. Whiffs of pre-spoiled dormant milk, trapped in pan, puddled on plate, waiting for thirsty tongue and hungry stomach. Kitchen, so predictable, no challenge, no waiting for the man, breakfast dishes stacked two on two, a cascading fountain of watered milk, barely flushed from empty bowls. Tongue dab — dabble and scoop and swallow and drink — drink — drink.

Glorious lactic acid, nasty lactic acid, so nasty, so sweet, so bad, so good once my tolerance rose, once my tolerance tolerated, tolerated the acid and curdled the milk and released the whoa, the glorious whoa of alcoholic dizziness. Young kittens over-dab, tongue too much, lactic twists their tender guts, vomits and shits, too much nastiness for low tolerances. Older cats, bolder cats, bide time and build — or suffer for the whoa, but build none the less — the tolerance to tolerate enough milky milk to please and purr. Perfect palettes know, know how to enjoy, know how to use.  Dozing on the flat floor, a fat cat nodding on the flat floor.

The floor so flat, flat floor, fat cat, flat cat on a flat floor.

Belly, full belly, milk belly, beer belly full of milk belly, so very full belly.

Spread — seep — stretch — roll — flatten — lounge into the floor, the flat flat floor.

Doze — doze — doze — purr  — purrurrurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.


            Let me tell of what I never remembered before I remembered, that is, what I never bothered to remember before I realized who I was, who I am. I am George, I have always been George, even in dead-brain, instinct-brain, cat-brain I was George.

They knew too, could see it, something cosmic told them I was a George. My face, this furry face and tired sleepy eyes, with dopey tongue, and lethargic limbs stumbling in georgish ways, told them I was a George. But those who named cat-me George did not know, could not know what I did not even know, they did not know human-I was George the Junky from Norfolk, died of heavy hectic overdose in 93. Dead junky George. And how could they know my sins? My sins, my sorrowful weariful worrowful sins. I am not the black of black cat, evil cat, pet of the witch cat.  No, I am the orange cat, fat happy orange cat of the comics cat, but white stripe not black stripe, no black, not the black of evil witch cat, but the white of holy sunny happy cat. They did not know, could not tell, who and what I was, who I am. Just cosmic coincidence, just a random name that landed on this cat-George.


            Seizure — tip of the tail twitch.

Taps the end of the spine line, popping the eyes OPEN.  Not the silver spherical pop of familiar heroin hits — like that one final hit, final fix, finally fixed me finally, tossed me into the furry hell of cat head — popping in cat eyes, tiny slits of cat eyes. Cat eyes popped, cat eyes searching, searching for a fix, Allen’s angry fix.  Something to sooth, something to kick, not kick, but KICK, kick start, something to kick start my motor, something to send me on the purr.

Levels are low. Alarms have sounded. Desire surfaced. It is time, later time, time to prowl, time to hunt. Time to find what can be found. Flat-floor-living room, empty living room, no shoes, no help, alone, no servants to serve my kitty cat joneses, no one to run my routine on, my routine, run my routine for my fix, fix my cat need, cat desires.

Lonely room, empty flat floor of a high empty room, explore flat plane of flat floor loneliness. Creep and stroll — stalk and prowl — mope and grope — find what can be found. Pink patch pick up, nose knows, can smell familiar smell of herbal spice — cat nip.  Sniff a drool soaked catnip toy, old toy, cashed stash of catnip lost under chair, tattered battered beautiful mouse, found now in desperation of cat depression, suck the last bits of flavor, last bits of sharp catnip high, catnip stash forgotten. Sweet catnip, the cat equivalent to pot you say, but no. Cat nip is catcaine — cocaine for cats. What pot head goes goes goes goes and goes after wallowing in a plenty pile of pot?

Breath deep, fill nose, full nose, wait, heart races, wait, tail twitch, wait, head jerks.

Go – Go – Go  — counter to floor to hall to under bed — around bed —  over bed — out of room — down hall — around corner — cross floor — over chair — rocketty chair — balance – balance – steady balance.

Go – Go – Go  — under front of — out from behind of — couch — cross floor — enter room — under chair — under table — up onto chair — hide – hide – hide.

Peek head. Look – Look – Look.

Go – Go – Go  — table clear — cross table top — jump — cross air — land on bookshelf — balance – balance – steady balance. Shelves rattle with bottles and tableware — balance – balance – steady balance – launch, crash dishes — land on floor — cross floor — behind television — dash behind chair — wait — wait — wait -wait.

Go – Go – Go  — cross floor — down hall — into room — under desk —  turn round —  wait — wait — wait — wait.

Go – Go – Go  — out from desk — jump — land on window sill — jump — cross floor — out door — down hall — into living room, wide open center of floor living room.

Stop. Breathe. Wait. Brreeeeaaaatthhheeee.


            Damn the quick, rapidly burned off high of cat nip. Too soon burned off and gone.

Wander hall, wander bathroom, wander hall, wander bedroom, under bed into darkness of cat loneliness, sulk and hide from junky cat hell, furry hell, hide under bed in darkness of lighted day. No high here under bed, nap and nothing, under dark, in the bright night of day, waiting for absent servants, waiting for absent fixes. Nap and nod in mean time, purr away the loneliness in the dark of cat night, seven nights in one day night, sleep and lounge, rest and recuperate.

Before, I never noticed this cruel predicament. Before, there was never any memory-popping pot smoke to reveal my kitty kicks. In the before, my cat past, the part that I can’t recall… the first few, the uncountable kitten years — seven or one? fourteen or two? — were spent… someplace else. Not this floor, not these carpets, nor these chairs and cushions and couches, somewhere different, but similar. Although I have been here, stalked here, lived here for many whiles now, but it was not always, not these patterns of walls, the maze was different, altered, but still there were walls, I was always inside happy cat, inside with familiar friendly family, not kittens or cats, but keepers, servants, human servants, servants of temptation, serving my kickless addictions.

And I am positive, as a matter of cat fact, I am positive, positive I used to live in a house, not this small wall-space, apartment-space, but large wall-space, with lots of hands to pet and play, always someone there to satisfy needs. But here, in this maze of walls, this smaller apartment-space, I am mostly alone. People are here in the early, occasionally here for moments throughout the bright-light day, and then they both return, not together, but near time, in the sunless late. A few hours more of people to fill my bowl and stroke my back, ruffle my ears, and then I am alone again.

And in this before, as cat with catmind dominated by cat waves, I existed in permanent present, every time was now, always now, forever now. Things were learned, conditioned not learned, piled not learned, knowledge piled into present, all was felt and known as instinct. I simply knew, knew where my food bowl, food dish, tuna fish food dish was. I simply knew that; human in bathroom — jump, counter, water, drink. Memory was just piled instincts, known knowledge. Before I did not know.


            Seizure — tip of the tail twitch.

Taps the end of the spine line, popping the eyes OPEN.

Door click, lock tumble, vacuum suck of empty wall-space popped.

Door opened and, home, yes home. Out from bed, out from nap of cat night, out and about to the door. Greet, yes greet.

Hello, hello, hello, welcome, welcome home, hello.

Pet, yes pet, and rub, stroke and scratch and rub and flop and roll and belly yes belly scratch and rub and haunch and back scratch and rub, tingles tingle tinglely.

No, no stop, more, no stop, now more rub. Walk away? wait? No, wait wait wait, return. Feet flick and clop across floor to kitchen, clippity clop on linoleum and door open, can open, food fall, fill bowl.

No no no no, not food, fix, server serve, just one fix. Rub – Stroke – Pet. Servant of addictions serve. Rub – Stroke – Pet.

Nibble bibble, one bite, two bite, swallow. Watch shoes, stalk shoes, clop away, muffled steps on carpet. Wait, wait, the routine. We all have routines. Routines never fail. Couch sit. Good. Shoes, shoes— yes shoes off, to the floor, good.

This is the time, this is the point, this is the place where my furry hell, my cosmic karmic sentence will become, oh so clear, crystal clear, shiny pretty crystals clear. From blowing to being blown in back alley basements, from theft to murder to torture and black-cat-mail, I’ve done the degrading, the demeaning — you can get used to anything they say— anything long enough becomes normal and mundane. Get comfortable on alley beds of piss and beer and beer piss from winos, mattresses of broken brick bottle and newly dead junkies’ broken needles, smashed and discarded gear. But this hell, this furry hell of which I have told, has taken me beyond those flowery gardens of yesterlife.

This routine sends me deep into the sole, deep down in the sole of traveling shoes, nasty sweaty fungi funk filled shoes. For kitty kicks, I breathe and huff and puff the funk from fresh shoes, sandals, boots and still moist socks.

Roll in outside filth and inside funk.

Breath deep the fungi of travelling feet, envelope my furry face, into and towards the toe, the sweetest sweat, the deepest fungi, suck and breath until saliva salivates from my soul into and onto the sole.

Roll in outside fungi… Rub in inside funk…

Rub… Stretch… Breathe shoe…

Roll… Stretch… Suck sock…

Rub… Stretch… Lick soul…

Outside… Inside… My side whoa…

Roll… Stretch… Breathe shoe…  Rub… Suck sock…  Roll…. Lick soul…

All for the purr, the simple heavenly purr, purr, puurrrrrrrrr.


            Seizure — tip of the tail twitch.

Taps the end of the spine line, popping the eyes OPEN.

The last fix, the final puzzled piece, that fits the space and completes the parallel, makes all the senses make sense, the junky’s routine perfectly paralleled, pantomimes repeated for the doctor’s graces. For the final fix, I must run a routine, fake an ill, pull a lie for a script, must make them believe, make them certain I am ill and dying of hacking whacking cough. Something new, never before ingested as man, never metabolized and broken down into fixes and hits, something so purrfect, so sought after, that mysterious wonder drug of maniacs, exists here in this fury hell.  For a hit, for a simple heavenly hit, a fix to send me on the purr, the purr better than a thousand nods, a thousand nods vibrating through and out of my furry body. I fake the distressing cough of old man dying, fog horn blowing, bellowing breath pushing hairballs into air, out of body, for the sweet cat drug. The drug of being, transcendental madness, malt flavored madness, doped contentment in a paltry paste.

Hack-hack-hacketty-hack. Breath deep and push and pull and scratch and hack.

Yes, fetch, yes get, please get.

Hack-hack-hack. Oh yes. Hack-hacketty-hack.

Lick sweet terrible paste of numbness.

Lick lick holy mecca of chemicals, beats any hot hit in hell.

Lick-lick-lick-lovely-lovely-lovely malted paste, sweet doctor, prescribes happy happy hairball meds, tranquil solvents grease and dissolve awareness of self.

Blah… Go blah, yes blah,  going blah on the flat flat floor. Fat cat on a flat flat floor.

Blah… The timeless wait of limbo, numb limbs on Jimbo. Limbo, junky limbo, eight hours staring at Willie Lee’s shoe limbo. No rush, not rushed, no duties, no responsibilities, no waiting for the man. Needs met, schedule clear, nothing to do but fix and nod, whoa and purr.


Now, not in the mood to warn, too full, too fixed, too full to talk too full to warn, too fixed to care, just want to go blah on the flat flat floor. Nowhere to go do nothing, nothing to go do anywhere. Wait — wait for the next urge on the next day, the next vice, the next fix, the next purr.

This hell of wallowing in my vices, suffering in my sins — I’ve got no choice, nothing to do but abuse the sin, locked into vice, ravage the addiction, get my kicks purr and nod. But you, you have time. Avoid and beware, beware of that next beautiful hit — that last fix in José’s apartment, on José’s floor, his flat flat floor, final hit which finally fixed me, that final shot of China Kat— so pure, too pure, but sooo purr, sooo purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…


About Matt Peters