I like Monkeys. A little too much perhaps


I don't usually feature other peoples stuff on my site (the Internet is quite full enough of other peoples crap, I figure. This is my personal site for my personal crap) but these are so good, I just had to give them a little room of their own.

Thus follows a short surreal story from a friend of an American friend of a top bloke called Nick Turner, all of whom are grown adults and should know better....and after that, some poetry! And in due course, other stuff!


I like monkeys. The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple of thousand. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200.

I like monkeys.

I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals.

I stopped laughing.

I herded them into my room. They didn't adopt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.

Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: They all died. No apparent reason. They all just sorta' dropped dead. Kinda' like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later.

Damn cheap monkeys.

I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs.

I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.

I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad.

I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn't want to call the plumber. I was embarrassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately, there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't all go bad.

I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire.

Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two frozen monkeys in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The odour wasn't improving.

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the bathroom. I severely beat one of the monkeys.

I felt better.

I tried throwing them away but the garbage man said that the city was not allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him I had a wet one. He couldn't take that one either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn't know quite what to say. They pretended that they like them, but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.

I like monkeys.


I have a poety mate called Gavin (feeling a bit negative, left) who lives in the same town as me. He's a proper published wordsmith and everything. Below are his thoughts on having a hard-drive crash on him. (On later inspection, it wasn't dead, the cable had just popped out of the back of it. Poets, it seems, make poor PC engineers).

Blue Screen Blues

Insufficient permissions
divisions, rejections
non-existent relations,
errors without directions

Performing illegal operations
Like back street surgeons
It takes general exception
To my qualified perfection

Then my Blue Screen blues
Are blackly ignored
And the whirring drive
That’s being implored

To live…!


“Keyboard not found”
“Hit F1 to continue”
And I finally snap
Become “Badday 2”

Heavy machine
Expensive development
Makes satisfying crunch
On distant pavement

And perplexed colleagues
Aware of my torment
Direct me away
To my padded cell treatment

But I like it in here
In this lovely big house.
Not a peripheral stirring,
Not even a mouse…

Gavin Webb (c) 2001

And this was a poem he wrote after...um...looking at a light-bulb too long? You can do these things when you're a poet and no one says a word. Do it in a Mental Hospital and they increase your medication. Go figure.

Eyelid Art

I close my eyes and see the echoes of lights.
Clusters, formations, Pleiades.
I struggle to fathom their failing life,
unlock meaning from gleaming.
Formation like spaceship thrusters
against black space inside my mind,
or atomic structure turning,
chemical meaning broken down.
I stare unfailing at the dying embers
of my kaleidoscope, eyes wide shut.
Then my concentration wavers and I blink.
The brightness of now
over exposes my optic print
and the shapes have gone,
replaced by dappled darkness, dark orange
as my internal palette is washed anew, reset.

Gavin Webb (c) 2001

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