Monday, 4 May 2009

Mo mo mo mo Monkey

I lean out of the window and watch the children ply their trades in the street below. Some of them have baboons on chains, others are half-hauled along by leashed hyenas. A few idly copulate among the bodies of the fallen. I pick my teeth as the monkey aims its catapult and the ballbearing is loosed right straight dead in the eye of a monstrous baboon. The beast freaks, its scream incongruous to its lethal bulk. It turns on its child-mistress, tearing her like bread, howling and gibbering with strands of spit and viscera flinging from its bloody maw. The other children try to flee but their beasts are aroused by the carnage, and all are devoured. The monkey must have its sport.


  1. What to do now, with all the flaying and slaying done? Off to tomorrow, baboon-assed on the backs of tittering hyaena, the chains around their necks trailing rattling skulls of dead children. You idly pick your nose as you watch them disappear at the horizon then go crooning to your caupauchin.

  2. And the monkey sings back, its coos husky and sepulchral, pausing every so often to bite off my fingernails, gently, as though I were its young.