Traded For Monkeys

Questions fly.
Banana fight.
My soul has been traded for monkeys.

 

Livid [In Tall Grass]
Dirty insects,
I itch on the inside of my skull.
Farmed were impetuous words
Of desire.

Wretched, wretched tall grass,
I fell you with my foot.
A gripe with heartfelt ambivalence
Is wrote number running,
Monotony incarnate.

Peace exists
Among ramshackled excuses for beauty.
Passionate, living falsehood and
Labored, subconscious philandering.

Create me a simple famine of symbols
And left-over symmetry:

Cold, itchy grass.

 

What A Calamity!

Chilled on ice,
In a twist over the
Textures and manipulations:
Lavish, but rags…
Vegan, but fleshy…
Milky stains left on towels,
We wiped our mouths
With our shirts.
Encircled in cotton draperies
Upon my soapbox;
Shouting and galavanting up
The stairs to the ramparts.

You got in trouble for dropping your pants.
I laughed.

Brian Gagné