Cat Ingrid Leeches

@leeches.bsky.social

1055 Followers 774 Following

Writer, weird stuff enthusiast. Nonbinary (they/them). I love zines and bad-bad art. If it is not bad enough, I will not love it.

Photo of a black and white cat on a green and brown climbing tree. Her face is obscured by a shelf.
A picture of my book, I Wander the Earth, Hungry for Semen.
A video of a small snake (striped red black and yellow) slithering into grass
A copy of my book, I Wander the Earth, Hungry for Semen, peeking out from beneath a sculpture/bench. The sculpture looks like a bird but has four fingered hands.
A flyer for an online poetry reading: Wednesday, June 25th / 7 pm CST Readers include: Lagnajita Mukhopadhyay, Steph Patterson, Imani Warren, Nicole Yurcaba, Cat Ingrid Leeches, Sam Wright Fairbanks
A flyer for a reading! It will take place on Zoom, Wednesday, June 25th…7 pm CST The reading is hosted by Sara Matson and features: Lagnajita Mukhopadhyay, Steph Patterson, Imani Warren, Nicole Yurcaba, Cat Ingrid Leeches, and Sam Wright Fairbanks
Diary Entry #10 Were the spirits quieted by the plague, or could we just not hear them anymore? Do you remember the first time we made love? My nose swiveled to and fro, I smelled shit clinging to someone’s rectum. You do not nourish your bowels enough. I condemn you in this way and you know why. The only way to get rid of an infestation is to give into it. Rats, like desire, run out of your body, and I flick them away with my tongue. They have never been denied access to you. I tell you that you must fornicate with whatever is at hand. Stuff yourself with so much longing that you are no longer human. Only then, will they all flee from your body, some as slender as a thumbnail. You will probably be dead.
Diary Entry #1 Before the plague, I was nothing but a stack of meat and a stick. I never thought about what was glorious to god. A child of the one faith smeared his fingers on my unbothered rims, and I took the hardest path in this life, initiated by a sharp intake of air into my lungs and everyone in this city felt a little woozy at once. It was his disused hand that cried out first—over what we all felt like was lost, but could not name. The body died later in the night, the boy the next day, and I’m still here flowered in the pageantry of his last rites.
A tabby kitten on a white blanket
Sticker shop display. One says, “Masturbate & Dump him.”
A black cat getting his chin scratched
My foot (pale & pink) is hovering over wet sand. I’m wearing a clock ring on my toe. Leg hair is poking out from rolled up blue jeans
A whimsical poster of a kitten riding a skate board made of blood. The kitten has a mermaid tail. Jeff Bezos laughing, disembodied head is floating in the right hand corner. Text says: digital dreams of a miscreant/cannibal/“kitten”
I’m holding the book Ugliness by Moshtari Hilal in my right hand. It’s resting against a table top.
I wake up and anxiety is there/ in bed I fall backward/ the Earth’s surface disappears / there is soil and water and metal/ blood’s recipe/ the nurse takes the child away/ for a long time his cries carry down the hall/ my hands miss him like skin/ what has the child cost/what has the child cost me/ I wake up and I’m about to die
The novel My Work by Olga Ravn resting on a small brown table. Translated from Danish by Sophia Hersi Smith and Jennifer Russell
Frank Moore’s painting, “Gulliver Awake” (1994-95) oil on canvas on panel with enamel frame In the center of the painting a very large man who resembles Robert Pattinson is lying down on what resembles white marshmallows, pills, or a collection of tiny pillows. He is surrounded by people much smaller than him who are restraining his body with rope.
A picture of four books on a table. 1. How to Fuck Like a Girl by Vera Blossom 2. The Book Is A Tower Always Never Watching by Rachel Zavecz 3. The Devils of Loudun by Aldous Huxley 4. The Tower of Love by Rachilde (translated by Jennifer Higgins)
An ad for an unfurnished 1 bedroom apartment for rent. All utilities included. No poets. No smoking. Available July 1st.
The original French of
A picture of the book Cinders by Jacques Derrida (U of Nebraska edition) translated/edited by Ned Lukacher.
A calico cat laying on a white blanket. She’s on her back, facing up, looking at the camera.
A picture of two books on a table. The first book is a Manga, Happiness by Shuzo Oshimi. The second book is Communal Nude: Collected Essays by Robert Glück.
The book Snow by Lara Glenum nestled in a pothos plant hanging from a hook.
An orange and white cat posing for a photo.
A picture of a page at the end of an edition of Forever Valley by Marie Redonnet (translated by Jordan Stump). There’s an interview at the end of the book.
A mask painted like a tabby cat, dried flowers are glued on as well.
A person wearing a burlap possum mask, a brown cloak, and black gloves.
A picture of a page from Alice Notley’ The Speak Angel Series. “The dead created the world when they were still dead”
Two books on a wooden table. The first book is Organ Meats by K-Ming Chang and the second book is The Elvenbane by Andre Norton and Mercedes Lackey.
A tortishell kitten, clinging to a metal bed frame she has no business climbing.
A book on a red picnic table. The book is Nefando by Mónica Ojeda (translated by Sarah Booker).
A tortishell kitten’s paws with weirdly long fingers.
A doodle done with an ink pen.
A picture of the game everquest. Underground aqueduct in qeynos. Graffiti scrawled on the wall: Dumpy was HERE. A rat tail lower left corner.
Cups for sale at a target, rearranged to say “All Men Vape.”
Over and over by us torn in two, The god is hidden place that heals again. We are sharp-edged, because we want to know, But he is always scattered and serene Even the pure, the consecrated gift he takes into his world no other way than by positioning himself, unmoved, to face the one that is free Only the dead may drink from the source that we just hear, the unseen pool, when the god, mute, allows them with a gesture. Here, to us, only the noise is offered. And the lamb keeps begging for its bell Because of a more quiet instinct.
A photo of a tortishell kitten licking her nose.
A healthy tortishell kitten sitting on my white comforter.
A dead fish on the beach. Her eyes face forward, her mouth is slightly parted.
A screenshot of spider woman/demon escaping an apartment. This is from the 1980s anime, Wicked City.
An illustration of a man eaten by cats
A picture of a physical copy of the book INTERROGATING THE EYE. The book is in between a kitten (with a cartoon speech bubble over it’s head that says ‘cry semen’) and a plague doctor plushie.
Calico cat wearing medallion.
Calico cat wearing cursed medallion.
An illustration of a frog’s skeletal system.
EVENING PRAYER I spend my life sitting, like an angel in a barber's chair, / Holding a beer mug with deep-cut designs / My neck and gut both bent, while in the air A weightless veil of pipe smoke hangs. Like steaming dung within an old dovecote A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn. And then, when I have swallowed down my Dreams/ In thirty, forty mugs of beer, I turn To satisfy a need I can't ignore, And like the Lord of Hyssop and of Myrrh I piss into the skies, a soaring stream That consecrates a patch of flowering fern.
A picture of the book So Much For Life by Mark Hyatt.
A calico cat sitting on a white bed. Her eyes are very round. She is ready to destroy my hand.
These facts, which are the basis for our predictions, were already fore- shadowed before the War and our Revolution. Marinetti, the siren of Futurism, also dealt with typography in his masterly manifestos. In 1909 he wrote: ‘The book will be the futurist expression of our futurist consciousness. I am against what is known as the harmony of a setting. When necessary we will use three or four colours to a page, and 20 different typefaces. E.g. we shall represent a series of uniform, hasty perceptions with cursive, a scream will be expressed in bold type and so on. So a new painterly typographic representation will be born on the printed page.’ Many of today’s creations do not go beyond this demand. I should like to stress that Marinetti does not call for playing with form as form, but asks rather that the action of a new content should be intensified by the form.
Book was there, it was there. Book was there. Stop it, stop it, it was a cleaner, a wet cleaner and it was not where it was wet, it was not high, it was directly placed back, not back again, back it was returned, it was needless, it put a bank, a bank when, a bank care. Suppose a man a realistic expression of resolute reliability suggests pleasing itself white all white and no head does that mean soap. It does not so. It means kind wavers and little chance to beside beside rest. A plain. Suppose ear rings, that is one way to breed, breed that. Oh chance to say, oh nice old pole. Next best and nearest a pillar. Chest not valuable, be papered. Cover up cover up the two with a little piece of string and hope rose and green, green. Please a plate, put a match to the seam and really then really then, really then it is a remark that joins many many lead games. It is a sister and sister and a flower and a flower and a dog and a colored sky a sky colored grey and nearly that nearly that let.
A picture of a page from the intro of Publishing Manifestos. It is an anthology edited by michalis pichler. “Most e-books… seek to mimic a book, even though they are fundamentally different. Digital publishing has yet to blossom, like an ugly duckling whose potential and beauty is yet to be discovered.”
“Once the work of art is totally neutralized, ineffective, abstracted, safe, and politically lobotomized, it is ready to be consumed by society. All is reduced to visual fodder and transportable merchandise. Even when books are housed (entombed) in institutional libraries, their sequestering in “special collections” and “rare book” collections means that access to them is usually further complicated, typically putting restrictions, rules, limits, and the protocols of institutional bureaucracies between interested readers and the books they might want to experience.”
When only commercially successful names get canonized, it distorts our perspective of the range of works actually produced, as when it recuperates a culturally diverse scene only to have market forces and the celebrity system brought down on to it. Some of the most interesting artists are involved with publishing today and operate unaffiliated with galleries.
The economics of publishing are a concern, both in terms of production and sustenance. Can one pay to print? Can one pay the rent—not just for a studio, but also for housing? When making books and/or art, is one living for or from it? Why does everybody always want to prove that one’s own publishing activity pays for itself, that one does (or at least theoretically could) “break even”? Does this desire arise from mere optimism or naïveté, or does it betray a more emancipator impulse? As —>Tauba Auerbach puts it: “it’s not a priority to make it work financially, other than the fact that I would like to prove to myself that it’s possible to have a viable business that isn’t compromised.”
Image of the cover of Publishing Manifestos: an international anthology from artists and writers edited by michalis pichler
A person is holding a small grey kitten in their fist. The kitten is a tabby with a thin face, blue eyes, and big ears.
Malnourished 5 week old, grey tabby kitten sitting on a person’s lap.
A picture of page 25 from the book With Deer. A poetry/hybrid collection by the Swedish author Aase Berg. The book is published by Black Ocean and translated by Johannes Göransson.