cat 1: Does the public appear liberated or can the soft sound of flesh parting indicate a change of dynamic stew?
cat 2: This champagne makes a fruity pop and thump on my glassy little tongue.
(cat 2 indicates towards the moon and flushes the rest of the champagne down into the river where the fish swim and take long smoke breaths, seeing the moon as it really is, a carpeted room.)
cat 1: I could account for change. The recent publicity, i.e. sinking, meanderers, pork-belly, country sound, is adding crumbles of dust to our stack of power. Do you fish often, cat?
cat 2: The fish calender our tiny paws.
cat 1: For truth I would fuck a goose, good brother cat. In my memory cracks a little egg, not knowing its place, but holding on to the thought's paw like butter.
(Cat 2 puts on a tuxedo, grows a beard, and recites a song while six bright white swans spill vomit in unison along the shore, little white feathers trail out peacefully all along the river. Cat 1 daringly takes a feather, swallows it and trickles piss out from below his tail. They both smile, bow, and float up towards the moon)
ACT II (in space)
cat 1: This flounder has the resuscitation of a flummox. And by god, the trout lingers, does it not?
cat 2: We are perpetually fucked and left to spin and spin. No one houses bother with our smell or kind of peace. Let it be known I am not bitter man. But I have been forgotten.
(cat 2 grabs a bike and goes for a peaceful ride, accepting his limitations and loving all of man kind.)
cat 1: This is dreadfully plain. Can we not find more timber in this place, a shallow rot, hole to sink, a tarp to lay our tears in. I am a hungry. Feed me now.
(Cat 1 dips his hand into a nameless planet and eats all their fish. Everyone on the planet dies. Cat 2 returns from his bicycle ride alone and horny. Cat 2 attempts to "make love" to cat 1 but is denied by hammer.)
cat 2: Alone, alone alone. I return to the planet of sloth alone. Dear Neptune, I recite thy peace and love the shun of a Shepard's foreskin. Goodnight love and black sleet goodnight.
(Curtain lowers, the crowd leaves disappointing and confused. The moon sleeps like a bag of nails. A man attempts to make love to his wife that night, but she becomes scared and grows whiskers and floats up towards the moon.)