The Meat Monkeys boomed death into my mother.
No more warm,
no more milk,
no more rough tongue.
They put the hard ring around my neck,
and pushed me behind the strange gray grass that cannot bend.
The Meat Monkeys taught me useless things:
Jump through a hoop.
Sit on a perch like a bird.
Go here, do that, learn some monkeytalk.
Whip. Chair. Hungry.
At night, I dream of forests full of loose dinner.
Here comes my Meat Monkey, strutting.
Meet my claws, teeth, anger.
Learn some tigertalk.
a circus tale for Mama Zen in 89 words.