In Which I Try to Shed My Prehensile Tail

In Which I Try to Shed
My Prehensile Tail

Fuck you tail, you trail
in prehensile appendage
good only to slither the brush
an unbalanced wing, thing,
whatever you can call it.

And to think this once resembled
a place so very much like…

Spiked, twisted in scale, tail
between almost prehistoric
and metaphorically illiterate
clawed feet, complete in shiny
green, multi-tonal envious verdure.

And to think the souls of poets
might remember it too…

Striped too, who could complain
beyond the obvious sorts, real sports
sporting spots, why nots? Snots!
But then again, it’s mine no matter
how I whine or pine, it just won’t shed.