The gorilla is swinging
from the rooftops
of a civilization he haunts.
In the back yard of this circus,
the pile of corpses
grows steadily higher.
He handles them quite gently;
as if they were puppets:
no sign of excessive violence.
There aren’t any distinguishing
marks on these tools
foolish enough to get caught.
The ape will oblige whomever
it is wants to be in on the act.
Since he grew weary of his hospital
cage, he falls on their beds
from a great height, always
Poems, evil smelling ways for
achieving wealth; a proverbial
monkey on his back
because it has happened again.
This time nobody gains consent.
He didn’t intend to be provocative,
his hemorrhoids were inspiration.
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