Everybody's Monkey

[busker]

is on Everybody’s back,
an idiot rain of random claws
with an inconsequential stare,
a wind of hunchback fictions
it twists our skeleton like handlebars,
shrieks to its gods
when we follow the heart’s track,
knocks our brains against eyes of flint.

We pray to a liar’s moon
to pour down its dancing bullets
on Everybody's backwards crucifixion
until Monkey makes another leap.

And so the Circus goes on,
on a flat earth beneath a tent of stars
no trapeze, no clowns, no elephants,
just a Ringmaster 
with a curious ape-like gait.

The last line is a thunderbolt.
This is delightful