The monkey is fun to talk to
when he hops off my back
to shoot the breeze
and chew the fat.
I cannot smoke the peace
pipe now, my tribe is at war
with the monkey; he doesn’t
care, he wants utter control.
He would just shrug at my death.
I like to make him laugh.
It makes my back slippery.
Eventually, he will slide
away and dissolve.
He will never die, but if
I can remember this awkward groping,
this disconnectedness,
this mortal fatalism,
I can use the emotions as a club
to keep him off of me.
But still, he’s fun to talk to.

(from bellaxthree.com)