We’re just a bunch of monkeys
Chilling with a concrete sex appeal
Leaning on a trunk, and hanging on the steel
Hooligans hold the minds key
Isn’t that what all that fucked up fiction says?
Isn’t that why you took this animal into your bed?
Was it something else entirely?
A practical reason?
Lonely slept, attic kept
We were in our 100th season?
Cinch the waif closed although she will blush a violet
Print on caged ribs in plumages painted with lacquer
Eyes which reflect brighter from borrowed light of sequins
Sewed to distorted figures by scores of her lessers’
Finger bones and you’ll boast of labor’s cost at altars
Of velvet artists whose worth is worth less than the tag
Or boxes that conceal sweated beads with jeweled tones
And blood-harvested but fractured stones that were designed
As a glamour gowned but stitched idols are simple tricks
Or traps like how feathers glued over cracks might subdue
Consumers from smashing their branded fetters together
Ramblr Magazine 