Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The Dybbuk Jan 2020
Monkey banana,
Climbing trees and smoking canna
bis, it's bliss, over the abyss.
Monkey banana,
No pants, just bandanna,
Screaming "ooh ooh aah aah"
from inside my cabana.
I go to a weekly poetry night, and the theme this week is monkeys.
Carlo C Gomez Jan 2020
Why so inquisitive little guy?
You threw your own feces at Miley Cyrus.
Ate a whole bar of soap.
Even carried Ebola virus.

While nosing around you got
zapped by a high voltage fence.
Stole a bunch of bananas from the dollar store.
But got probation cause it was your first offense.

You once smoked a pack of cigarettes
with Salvador Dali.
Then twice stated he spoke English
like a dumb tamale.

You ran your rental car off a cliff
in Malibu just for kicks.
Bought a case of Gorilla glue just to sniff.

Hanging out with Maury Povich
you copped a feel on Connie Chung.
Spent a complete summer strung out
in North Korea with Kim Jong-un.

You got caught peeking through the hole
in the wall of the girls' locker room.
Pleaded no contest when
the monkey business hit the courtroom.
Then told all in your sorted
memoirs, nom de plume.

You're a lazy obstinate chimp
who's too curious for his own good.
I'd say a future trip to the vet to get neutered
is a sure likelihood.
B D Caissie Sep 2019
M
Monkey
Miming nuisance
Might be banana’s
Making weapons from poo
Marvellously behaved sitting on hands

©
B D Caissie Aug 2019
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 2019
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.
grey May 2019
Roses Are Red
Violets Are Blue
Are you a monkey?
Cause you smell like Santa Clause
Logan Robertson May 2019
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

5/20/2019
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.
Next page