Chainfooding

Cooped up in the closet,

monkey shrieks

and squirms because it

cannot hide,

inside such darkness,

from the reptile

trapped within

its sun-starved skin.

Direly dehydrated,

his very classification

has nearly faded,

withered and embarrassed

into an ugly,

makeshift carapace.

Can a guy become a bug?

Unfortunate metamorphosis

sits at the bottom

of the whole he dug.

But if an insect

proceeds to inject

every conversation

with salty disrespect,

is he not already

at least halfway

reverted into a crustacean?

Every humanlike sensation

is reflected by his spiny shell,

sinks straight to hell,

deep underwater,

where unspent emotions go.

That ocean's flow

leads not to madness,

nor to fear,

or bliss,

or golden years

of peace or excitement,

but instead to the indictment

of a sociopathic lobster.

Are we imposters?

All of us?

Are we just untrustworthy,

scurvy, alien

skeletons wrapped around

panicked, mammalian hearts?

He who farts

around the world,

lazily flaunting

his boney exterior

often neglects the superior

flavor

of his melty,

chocolatey,

human-y core.