Poetry
A Gorilla On Anti-Depressants Ain't No Good Gorilla At All
Kevin McGowin
He was down and out—
I mean he was heading down the turnpike,
At high speeds, bottoming hard,
Being self-destructive to the hilt;
—Ain't no Marlin Perkins gone bring him back from zero—
—Ain't no Fahrenheit gone bring him from his Celsius—
—He was trying to off himself,
By flooring his Olds into my neighbor's shrubs,
Crawling onto my porch at two a.m.,
Jonesing for a Schlitz . . .
He was down, you take it!
He was down, I'm saying!
But now, he's a new gorilla!
Now, he's a metamorphasised mammal,
—And that Prozac did him wrong—
—That Prozac did him wrong, I'm saying;
Now he's swinging from the trees,
Tying vines around fire hydrants and
Pulling them till they give what they've got
All over the richest section of town,
Beating his breasts in carnal glee
On my roof, running magnets over
Jane Goodall documentaries, turning my life
Into a topiary of a happy gorilla. And now,
Now, I'd rather see him bite the dust—
I'd rather see him bite the dust—
Than make cappuccino, fry that bacon,
And ask me, with a smile, if he could
Trash my place, like a good gorilla should.