For Dead Monkeys

In the justice of monkeys, the consequence of forsaking all will tell the shoes of vending. So too do the sheets fear of bending but quake not in fright of. And all tell of geodesics. However, it's not happening there, it's juxtaposed with a righteous indignation, a kind of shoehorn of proportions henceforth unknowable. A shoehorn that could only prove the existence of monkey justice.

Screeching is permissible in times of right frightnitude. But only when severed from gang acquaintances. Left feet are lucky, right misfortunate. But only for the first seventeen hours from waking. We don't speak after midnight, but may. The jungle tries to kill us, we try to kill it, it tries to die but can't. We can, so we pretend to try.

Less is the countercall. Topmost is the angle of rightlitude. We dont know this yet. The voices are not in our heads, but the heads of the insects in our heads. The jungle as yet has no head. We would laugh, but lack the mandibular dexterity to do so. We try, it pulls. The shaking is the cold, but something else as well, something less tangible, or more tangible but cut off, severed.

We can't but do. We still try but fail also. This isn't really anything, not on purpose anyway. But shoes are worn and the drinks will be dealt. The screaming and the high even harmonics, the thirteenth, the fifteenth. We can't even hear them but they matter more than the ones we can. Maybe the half, maybe the half of a half, creakiness is valuable these days. Justice tainted with the other thing.

This isn't real we're just pretending we're monkeys. The jungle pretends not to have a head. We agree on the lies, the insects don't. We are all correct, and we all try to kill each other. We can't ever have one of us win more than the other. The vending is impermissible even in times of hardship. But we try, the vending is silent.

Silent vending is the utmost. We strive to vend as silently as our footsteps allow. But as there is no-one to hear them, our volume means nothing. Maybe we can't vend, maybe the shoehorn disallows the permissibility of it. We don't wear shoes anymore, so we can't say. It's after midnight, we may speak but don't.