Art Need No Longer Be

For All Cats Have This Particularity, Each And Every One, From The Meanest Alley Sneaker To The Proudest, Whitest She That Ever Graced A Pontiff's Pillow — We Have Our Smiles, As It Were, Painted On. Those Small, Cool, Quite Mona Lisa Smiles That Smile We Must, No Matter Whether It's Been Fun Or It's Been Not. So All Cats Have A Politician's Air; We Smile And Smile And So They Think We're Villains

It Shone On Everyone, Whether They Had A Contract Or Not. The Most Democratic Thing I'd Ever Seen, That California Sunshine.

He Is, I Think, Already Pondering A Magisterial Project: That Of Buggering The English Language, The Ultimate Revenge Of The Colonialised.

Midnight, And The Clock Strikes. It Is Christmas Day, The Werewolves Birthday, The Door Of The Solstice Still Wide Enough Open To Let Them All Slink Through.

Moonlight, White Satin, Roses. A Bride.