The monkeys come,
Rustling from their parapets
A plague of shrieks born
From their dry, uncompromising throats.
A rebellion that speaks
To all the niches of our inhumanity.
Eyes full of soul
And intent as shot marbles.
These almost humans,
Which we force to perform as such,
Do not exist to fill our vacancies.
The sweet, inarticulate youth
Blasphemous in the arousal of sexuality
Will grow unwieldy, unprecedented
And all those careful hierarchies
Will reverse themselves, quite suddenly.
A penchant toward savagery
They loiter the decks of the wealthy
A trellis snuffing the lights of demarcation.
There is nothing whole
In the promise of captivity.
These wild things,
Who in fury unmask our faces
Have a right to rule
Their own dominion
And though their familiar hands
Tear gaily at our heartstrings
They will never play for us.