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B D Caissie Sep 11
Miming nuisance
Might be banana’s
Making weapons from poo
Marvellously behaved sitting on hands

B D Caissie Aug 9
There's a monkey on the moon, my grandpa use to say
Forever swinging from his tail, searching with each sway

He lounges on the clouds to watch the children play
His lonely tears come falling down and they all run away

At night he hops from star to star to visit the milky way
Without a friend to share it with all he ever sees is grey

There's a monkey on the moon, my grandpa use to say
Look up and spot him hidden amongst the clouds by day
Chris Saitta Jun 7
Old stripe-laced tiger moth of the Serengeti with your sugar-seeking tongue,
Your powdered fang stubs into another ******* hartebeest of some bud.
W.B. Yeats underwent the Steinach operation in 1934, which transplanted monkey glands into his own reproductive organs to give him what he felt were rejuvenatory powers of a “second puberty.”  That absurdity aside, I can’t stand his poetry for some reason as it seems overly egotistical, maudlin, and theatrical (for me, he is one finger of Shelley scotch and four of water), though I fully support anyone who enjoys it and finds real merit to it.  To each his or her own.
Nora Grey May 31
Roses Are Red
Violets Are Blue
Are you a monkey?
Cause you smell like Santa Clause
at the foot of the ladder, a monkey fell~
six stories of rungs and she rings his bell~
he sat picking daisies off his fallen spell~
hands cupping petals of air being his quell~
poor little monkey's a shaken as hell~
his eyes run circles around the pink pastel~
as shocked onlookers stand visual at his well~
in his cage, his cousin's saddened at their shell~
at the foot of the ladder, a zoo's a cell

Logan Robertson

It's like the monkeys, once free, are dropped from the sky
into Pandora's box, staring at the four walls. Sad. Sad is
their captivity in the zoo. To decipher their language of continuous e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ings, bickerings and fightings are easy-I am unhappy.
Sometimes I want to be just a primitive monkey so as not to think so much.
Monkey don't think, doesn't they think?
Aleena Apr 29
Wind cuts through
In the darkness
Isolation and sight
remote vision
Away from everyone
As black as night
Yet bright like the sun
And Vile coral
Always together
Never apart
But still is one
Bone and chin
One of a kind
Exquisite charm
Stuns yet enchants the mind
Delusion breezes in
Once more
Byron Fast Apr 24
My monkeys eat mangoes
While churches topple
And religions grapple
With ancient arguments
Over which benevolent, peaceful all loving god
Gets to enjoy the spoils of the soaring death toll.  

A loud burst in the jungle,
A squabble over mangoes.
Stupid monkeys,
Can’t even build a bomb.
Melancholicid Nov 2018
The memories of someone
The reminiscence of mine
Panda,  jokes, false love
Childishness and maturity
You are so smart
I am so dumb
Some people said
2012 was supposed to end
End our lives
Yet here I am still reminiscing
Have a nice day ❤️
Pablo Saborío Nov 2018
I am observing the world

whose very act of existing

has made us claim

that it is the only world to exist.

I am observing

the shadows of the sun

when suddenly the monkey

appears again, opening

that window

below my language.

It picks up all my words

and chews them, only to spit

them out while producing

a grotesque sound of pleasure.

I’ve seen this monkey many times,

he comes from the world within

that is populated by innumerable monkeys.

They all seek the only thing

they claim is real: monkeyhood.

Monkeyhood is hidden

deep in their jungle,

it can be eaten, soft caramel-like

substance that it is.

But only a few monkeys are able

to reach this sacred core.

The monkeys that visit me

are those that for whatever reason

have stopped seeking monkeyhood.

They would rather appear

unannounced in this world,

to taste a few fragments of illusion –

as I believe they once called it.

I sit watching the shadows of the sun,

here below the clouds while I describe

the indistinct quality of being alive.
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