Grief will fuck you up Monkey

One of the first articles I read this morning was on the mourning habits of the marmoset. This chunk leapt out at me:

…several months after her death, the male disappeared from the marmoset group, never to be seen again.

And gave chase
Looping over and…
getting tangled-up,
in everything.

Like how every pop and shush
of steam from the coffee maker
is nestled in woven loops of
never to be heard of again

Maybe that’s why I never made that second cup.

I mean, fuck—out pops a clown:
if all I get out of it is grief,
why should I even turn you on,
oh ye coffee pot o’ doom!

That was close wasn’t it.
You can always count on a clown,
though, ride in last minute,
keep you alive another day.

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Franklyn Monk

Poet. Geek. Science fiction aficionado. General freak.
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