a shiny thing I never was
nor made of stuff immaculate
but toothy grins and shins and bruises,
burnt up skins and string-tied shoeses
tentacles and pentacles; spectacular, tentacular
pentaculate, tentaculate
immaculate—
no and nope; not me
all angles in their witchy ways,
all writhing feelers gone astray
a playground where no soul dare play
and in the gnarly blackest spots
where itches scratch and scratches cross
there rots the lot of should-have-beens.
the what-it-is
is what is there,
and nowhere . . . nowhere
nowhere
is that thing once bright, that shiny light
oh radiant thread, pulled taut and tight
just hair gone mad and fingers roaming
eyes gone bad and fancies foaming
far from impeccable, close to wreckable
a shiny thing gone dark