Monkeys are everywhere
You cannot run
You cannot hide
So many monkeys
Feel dead inside
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Poetry should be fun. We're not here to write pretty. We're here to rip shit up.
Another Night At the Poetry Office
About Me
- David Oppegaard
- I am the author of And the Hills Opened Up, The Suicide Collectors, and Wormwood, Nevada.
Blog Archive
-
▼
2006
(37)
-
▼
January
(18)
- Jesus Song (For Ned, Who Sat With Me on That Chris...
- Atlantis Blue (Written Five Years Ago)
- when it's too early to be awake...
- What Leo Tolstoy Knew About Love
- Poem By My Cousin, Steve
- Drunken Rave #2
- Put Me in Your Pocket
- Don't Mind Me, Placid Suburban Family!
- Ancient Love in the Afternoon
- Reality is Crashing
- It Comes In Waves
- thoughts from the moon
- A Journey to the Center of the Earth
- The Last Beacon of Light
- An Exhortation
- zombie zombie zombie
- Afternoon Nap in January
- Poem for the Child Empress in The Film Adaptation ...
-
▼
January
(18)
3 comments:
What is it with monkeys?
I don't know. They speak to me. They speak to all of us, I think. They are so close to us...like little funny furry people.
so, the monkeys feel dead inside? Are they rotting monkeys? Do they smell bad?
Post a Comment