Only Silly Cats Smoke Pipes

Random Boo Archives:

The Tick

Every tick a theft, stealing your very right to exist, your very right of breath.
Time is all that is left, a measurement, a counting, a ticking to death…

The light, it irritates, it violates, and it penetrates my space and makes mockery of my being. It rapes my mind; it tears apart the very existence of I. It burns my skin, and everything therein, boiling the reminiscence of my sin.

Light is death to dreams, and death to the understood, for die does my dreams of what should, of what would, if what only could….

For as I transcend I see,
Time, is no mans friend.
But time beats a heart in me,
a rhythm, a play,

The End…

End of Transition

All through Space and Time balanced on a rhythm of lemons and lime, a puppet-master’s precarious rhyme, of an elusive design, that ponders down a bottle of a cheap red wine.

A nonentity it has become this trivial existence, but a small light switch, in this small small room, that must forever be left in darkness. The clattering sound of a telephone’s bell screaming echoes down the abandoned hallways of my mind; the hallways that were once filled with so many characters, and are now so, no more. Old forsaken dispositions like barbarians at the gates of Rome, deviously scheming in their packs. They fancy me dead; they desire me dead; I hear them, all of them. As their fate becomes mine… I don’t want to leave, I do not want to leave….

Dear God

Look here upon this society of thespians, cultivated by reciprocal delusion, matured by observational amendment. My adolescence pillaged recklessly to state void of compassion. What is love, if love be irrevocably blind? This catharsis; this adulterated liberation, manifestly not blind nor gratifying neither. Alas love a deficient concept.  What is this perpetual adoring; why this pestilent parasite? A mutual quintessence presents not. My sterile disposition inept; how can one adore whilst not adored? What motive is spent upon this desolate stage? I loathe beauty, I detest company; I despise what I grasp not. This self-solidarity of solitude is my narcotic ecstasy in this theatre of belligerent bastards; this congregation of arrogant pretentious cretins. What be love but a delusional comfort. What be life but a dawdling demise. What be thou, the god; recipient of my vomited discourse? A nonentity you be but a fictitious token.


What I’d give to be normal, yet the more I analyse what is norm, the further from it I go. In this sociality of an eye for an eye, the world has now become blind, and I sit in sin for not having followed…

Rub-a-dub-dub (Metaphysics)

A sphere of cheese illuminates the darkness of night as the piercing beams of dreams of light stab the sky like an invasion of glittering monster thingies with the waving things and err, whatever. “What time is it?” said the cat in a box whose survival had just become that little less-questionable. Suddenly, or a little time after suddenly, the sun fell off the sky, and the worms took over.
I hate people; I hate people that leave the cap of the toothpaste thus leaving it to go hard. I hate people that tie the plug chain around the tap fingers. I hate people that say things like “I tell it as it is” or “whatever” whilst attempting to create a double-u sign with their hands. I hate people that re-use teabags. I hate people that shop in their pyjamas. I hate it when people use Metaphysics to assist them in labelling their beliefs as scientific theory. Metaphysics will never be regarded as a true field of science, as Metaphysics appears to be nothing more than a very large bucket, for idiots to vomit their views into, with little, if any, requirement to scientifically justify their incoherent dribble. Thus, I’m leaving you Metaphysics, it’s not you, it’s me. (Meaning it is ‘all’ you, you bigoted hermit)


The lapse of the pulse remains irrepressible
Blackness melded with shades inexpressible
The infinite infinite compressed into nought
Measured only by sight and thought
Hours, years, and centuries all rhyme
The rhythm of life, the rhythm of time

God’s Jury

Its the Torturing Reminiscence on a past of divorced reaction
Awakens surging regret that beams Reflections in fraction
No follow Fascist Religion and I’m anarchist to Government
But the Cross that consorts fear casts a doubt on my judgement
With believe hostility aside along with my loathing of mankind
I am inpart apprehensive of What God’s jury will find?


Oh what will of meaningness
That we hold like are own pride
Or may play are madness sins
As one stands for which side
But I do inpart believe
That madness is in heart
Although meaning is but a hope
Thus they are but of part


One two buckle my shoe, thou need not construe! “You know what a bore is, Travis? Someone who deprives you of solitude without providing you with companionship.” I’ve become so introspective I see right through myself. My soul is on the other side, surfing the internet on a slow dialup connection. He looks really annoyed. I’m the kind of person that signs online just to go in away mode, but still people try to talk to me.
Like them people that knock on your door, and so you have to answer the said door, obviously I have to go down the stairs first, and head towards the door that the assertive knocking is coming from, which is precisely what I did, and you know them little glass things, like a little hole in the door that you can look through and everything on the outside looks really big, well, I haven’t one of them, so I, in trepidation, just opened the aforementioned door, and it’s them! Them people thingies that talk and stuff, so I shut it, because the majority of the time I can’t be bothered with human communication. I’ve nothing against God personally, but his work never really appealed to me.

Thing A

I have of late, become somewhat a misfit, in this world of treacherous thespians. I wonder on without direction, or a fixed point of view, judge little not without caution, no place to label home, a pitiful reluctant contender, in this world to which I have little relation.

You spend your life trying irrationally to fill a gap, only to choose to die to close it. It is ones conviction of solitude, that curious phenomenon, that peculiar paramount necessity that drives you mad for emotional stability. Alas, it is, and always will be, the inevitable reoccurring hammering fact of one’s existence. You are alone, as lonely as Morgan Freeman’s toothbrush. Ha! You think it’s ‘love’ you’re experiencing, you just love the idea of being loved. Welcome to the happy house of wax, now be a good Push Pop, and buy the book, then close your eyes, there there now, it will all be over soon. Life is just a phase you’re going through…you’ll get over it.

“Thing A cannot be discussed rationally,” she said.

“Wrong,” he said. “If Thing A can be discussed, it can be discussed rationally. For if you ever argued that it could not be, then you have just discussed it rationally, disputing your claim.”

“Thing A, Thing A, Thing A!” she said. “YAAAAAAAARRRR!”

“It can also be discussed irrationally,” he said.

The TV eye brought the true naked horror of our lives into the public eye for all to see, then the silhouette of delusion rides into the setting sun, and down pours the names of the Gods that collectively constructed the mapping of your perception. Your life but a stone throw to a lake, tap, tap, tap, tap, splash, as you sink into the murky depths of no return.

“You’re not very tall are you?” she said.

“Well, I, er, I try to be” he said…

And then like the yank of a flush chain, funny how quickly them that love you can forget you. Whilst you’re spinning around the toilet, they’re shopping for new fish in the pet store.

About Silly Cats

Started in 2008 the blog has since then been discontinued... These are a selected few archived blog posts starting with the last post first. Silly Cats

Silly Cats Smoke Pipes

Exclamation of contempt occurring without definite aim, reason, or pattern. This is the home to self-eradicating gluttony and feigned psychological-gratification. Get some red plonk, cigarettes, and some cake and succumb yourself to the fabricated sensations of pleasure galore. Don’t squander thoughts on hangovers, diets, and personal hygiene. Spend your days instead intoxicated and aggressive. Then die young of an overdose in a hotel room surrounded by prostitutes, in a poetic symphony of self-pity and artistic contempt. Label every man, woman, and child a parasitic monkey, shout "how dare you", spit out your fag in disgust, "Good day sir!" and slam a door!