Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except For Me And My Monkey

Every time I open them, these pain-blue eyes I've got, that monkey is there, staring sideways with eyes like bags of death. Lobster Monkey, claws for thumbs, slides its tail into my armpit. In and out. I had wellington boots like frogs when I was young, and the monkey dipped its fez in blood, the tassel braided from my baby-hair. Before that, in lux perpetua, it sat amongst the scabby stars like a heron, its tail wrapped about in ribbons. Some trees have cages inside them, rhododendrons and the grabbing hollies. The monkey pinches me with feet that move like hands, black leather like killer’s gloves. Mantailed monkey sews seeds in my sweat so I wake every morning crawling with moss, and crying like the rain.