The party

It was a party like no other,

a one man show, ‘Red Peter’

custom-built from a Kafka

tour-de-force, with cage, bananas, music.

All about a captured monkey transforming

to a music hall performer

mimicking humans, aping, with a

glimpse of human history, of our animal nature.

Way-too-close for comfort, reaching into

mucus, excrement, hair and fleas,

primate torture, tension, change, adaption:

the very smell of ‘human’.

I guess quite close to monkey business

and, though the guests applauded loudly,

they muttered ‘Not right for a party!’,

‘Quite unsuitable when you’re sober!’

but Kafka turned and looked steadfast

into a mirror, reckoned to attack

his beard, his tresses, neck, by shaving

here and there, down there, out there and back.