All Hail The Monkey God
Beyond your window, the drooling stars twizzle on their strings. They proclaim: all hail the monkey god. All hail the bollock-headed god of the ripe and arbitrary. The god of late-night radio phone-ins, microplastics and no-cheese pizza. Hail that hilarious, hungry, priapic deity. Teeth-bared, he capers on the cold bronze floors of heaven. The monkey god hoots as he rides atop ringlets of salt-scented cloud, yellowed and milky as spermatozoa.
His thin golden crown is tarnished. The red-arsed god of nothing swings down, screeching and rough-tumbling, into the sacred groves to chase the holy virgins, leaving them breathless, their ceremonial headdresses unpinned, trembling. He scampers on sharp claws back to the treeline where he cackles, chews an orange and spits out pips.
Such is the delighted menace of the monkey god. He does not beg for offerings, brings no luck, grants no wishes. Still, you worry if you hear him chattering in the forest, enjoying his harem. His whim might change whether the postman delivers an inheritance or a summons.
The monkey god has dampened the polaroids you keep tucked in the bottom of your bedside cabinet. When you open your diary, he has corrected your poems: red biro crosshatches obscure all 14 lines of your most sincere sonnet. You pray vividly but the monkey god does not bring your bad neighbour kidney stones, nor promiscuous daughters.
The world cannot run on a smooth track, it needs something to place coins on the rails, to rip up the tickets. In your neighbour’s kitchen a honey jar lies on its side. There are teeth marks in the cheese, a smashed crystal decanter. An underwear drawer stands open, its contents disordered.
Remember, as a school boy, your first time alone with a girl. The two of you in the form room. She chewed gum, looked blandly past your shoulder. A curdled smell seeped from your armpits. You lunged, tongue out, eyes closed. The monkey god interceded, heaved himself down from a light fitting. He bared lurid teeth and burped in her face.
He curls his long, leathery fingers around your own and bustles through a hedge so you can peep at the laundrette manageress. Heavy set, her armpits damp, she wears a tabard and crotchless knickers, probably, under her leggings. The monkey god ogles, squats beside you while, exhausted and embarrassed, you molest yourself through the pocket of your jeans. When it’s done, you skulk home, walking as if the trap of your spine has snapped shut. You are his talisman.
Can you kill a god? You don’t know, but to humiliate him will be enough. Armed only with a rifle and malice, you traipse into the forest to point the gun’s long barrel into the branches, determined that, this time, you will best him.
You walk deeper into the jungle expecting to see on the next branch, the next one, the next one, the monkey god glad-handing his blue testicles.
That bastard. You hack through the undergrowth, gun raised, trying to ignore the wet heat, the insects eating your ears and eyelids. The monkey god came to your best friend’s wedding. He knocked off the bride’s tiara, vomited on the buffet.
There is mud on your good trousers. You are late for an important meal with your in-laws. Cut flowers wither. You are a cut flower, your stem chewed through. You can’t mention the monkey god without your wife telling her therapist. No matter what the evidence suggests, you are blameless.
You loose a shot into the foliage, chamber another round, penetrate deeper amongst the pulsing, sour vegetation. Sweat sticks your ironed shirt to your back.
Where are you, monkey god? He is why you blink in every photo. You kick off your mud-clogged brogues, listen to something inside you that snicks on and off like a badly wired appliance. Fat leaves, thick as lips, suck at your face. You scream, gibber; you bare your teeth, you itch with fleas.
The monkey god titters; he is hiding in the one place you won’t find him. You tear off your clothes, fling them aside and stand in the muddled, shifting light. On this occasion, we have gone with another candidate.
You push the fingernails of both hands into your chest, push down until the flesh splits and your pain shines broken and glittering as diamond. You keep pushing, down to the bone. Credit cannot be extended.
You keep pushing until there is a crack, like the sound of an encyclopaedia being halved. You fit your fingernails inside it. It is the court’s decision, to grant the terms of the restraining order. There is a wrenching feeling – a boot out of mud – as your ribcage splits.
Look down. There, there, peeping from behind the pulsing purple tuber of your heart. All hail the monkey god. Here he is, that rascal, perverse, accomplished, welcoming.
You reach down and pluck out your heart. It throbs in your hand like a lizard.
The monkey god cackles as you bring that fluttering creature to your lips and bite it.
How does it taste, the monkey god asks.
Mouth full, jaws working through the tough, acrid meat, you answer splendid, thank you, just splendid.
James Mason
In small and inconsequential ways, James Mason has been a poet and standup comedian. He has an MA in Creative Writing from the Open University. One of his stories received special mention in Christopher Fielden’s 2024 To Hull and Back competition. He lives in Worcester, UK. He can’t think of anything beautiful or funny to finish on.
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