"taxidermy" poems
Not only are we going to **** you
(Subsequently leaving your wife and children destitute)
and glue your head to the wall
(It's called taxidermy, alright? It's a profession. Professional.)
but we will also perch this Santa hat
On the smallest tines
Of your impressive
Set of antlers
(The kind any other buck would
bow and scrape
to behold).
Because it's that time of year again.
Here's wishing a very
Merry Christmas
To you, your wife, and children.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
Taffeta watches the pigs atop the tables
Glass eyes and stitches where they're enabled
Guts pumping crimson liquid
Sewing 'em up, she's addicted
Family and friends recommend she withdraw
She responded with a twinkle in her eye and a dropped jaw
Scissors and string, that's all she'll need
Besides a corpse, of course, and a bit of stuffing
Lilac eyes affixed on a tattered pillow
Enjoying watching a weeping Willow
Her poor Porky pet has met his end
But everyone knows you can depend
Before your sweet pet starts to smell
On Taffeta's Taxidermy to stuff 'em well
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 4:29 PM UTC
in the east
a dry man stumbled through the lush panacea of a dessicated prayer
his faith moved mustard gas. gasping for clarity, he spoke a thing no god could answer.
he languished in the Eden of empirical Dodos
a succulent squab in the oasis of fables. he joined the throng. his shackles were mended.
his bonds, repaired.
in the west -
a rye bread crumbles along a path to a candy house -
to a furnace of blank stares.
it waits moonlit and rustic, alas - it's mad and verily cloaked in a thing no ' nothing ' would ask for.
it leads to a breach.
weary of " who knows ? "
a truculent husk of a drought mislabeled. an actual flood.
it rankles the vision...
it plots despair.
in the north, a gunga din fumbles through the arid Earnest of our Importance. There -
we play crude brass. Profundo. at last, we nearly...
and even though we wide spark the char of our scorched affair
we vanquish any Southland
and the warm sun
frosts a glass eye
like pyrite.
and polly wants a lacquer, dark enough to maroon...
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 10:24 AM UTC
The screeching sound of the metal tin can,
Pulls up around the corner of desperation.
Hair flying, adulation from fans,
You know its nothing but imagination.
Howls from inside echo through the sheet,
Music to the ears, and she gobbles it like nectar.
The door opens, and you're looking at her feet,
"Don't move, lest it should fester."
She speaks in an exotic tongue,
Like the animals in the wild.
She places a strong hand on your lung,
While your breathing goes mild.
The tool, ah yes, the tool,
She wields it like a paintbrush.
"Sit still, you pretty fool.",
She spouts, with an excited gush.
The lion's face peers at you,
From the far side of the room.
While a peculiar broth begins to brew,
And a dark mist begins to loom.
The rhino looks helpless on the wall,
Its horn standing out in the line.
" Oh, be calm you sweet little doll,
This should do just fine."
You can smell the taste of the wax,
And breathe in its visual splendor.
While her pleasure has reached its max,
Through the willing gifts, you lend her.
At last, its done and dusted,
And your face adorns the wall.
Wondering how on earth she could be trusted,
But alas! You cannot resist the caravan's call.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 8:59 AM UTC
When I first passed the gates
into the metallic garden
stamping out seeds
for the junkyard
with its infinite cardiac output
I gazed upon the eyes of the creatures
that inhabited this oily soil
of steel and chemicals
all I saw was a cry for help
to escape
to be away
just one day
they cry, just one day
I got caught in the claws
and it scratched
and scratched
the wounds heal but the scars stay
I have become a trapped animal
with eyes of dismay
There's little chance of escape
I can dream
I can pray
one day, I echo
one day
Now I am just taxidermy
for this godforsaken industry
and they call this
quality.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
"Who am I, mother?
Who am I and what do I do?"
–Norman to his mother Norma, "Bates Motel"
And so it goes, a split self - the protagonist defending the darkness as
Bizarre murders satisfy obsessions of a mothers love, taking a
Chefs knife, stabbing victims to death.
Dualistic wars within, a helpless man whose mother taught him of the
"Evils of women," instilling her own moralities of their wickedness.
Fostering the antagonistic personality of his mother
Giving to his incomplete soul a sense of wholeness.
Hidden behind the boy next door innocence, a terrified man
Incarcerated; locked & bolted
Juddering with fear - promising to adhere - set free said to be "cured."
Kleptomania returns; unearthing bodies from their graves, stealing skulls; a comforting souvenir, as
Loving anyone meant destroying them also.
Multiple personalities dominate him
Norman Bates becomes Norma; his mothers persona, crawling into her skin
Originating from their very kiss, kick starting a timeless love affair
Paraphernalia of skins tanned, butchered conquests -keepsakes turned to art & now protecting an un
Quiet mind
Reasons pertaining to mental insanity
Sectioned to institutions
Taxidermy as a young boy fascinated his mind
Urges to **** & fill, feeding euphoric highs, & even
Vertigo.
Women thrilled him; their smell lingered on each garment he kept.
Xenos to himself; who, am I mother?
Youth denied, cried away
Zenith ended; his final resting place behind the bars of Mendona Mental Health Institution, 1984.
© Sia Jane
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
they stuff "yes, no matter what" / "you're always wrong" / "what will people say?" / into a flimsy puppet skin / rigidly moving the strings in one direction / whenever someone comes over / they mount the puppet on the wall / proudly showing off their prized creation.
but when their eyes come to a close / the puppet feels scorching strings on its shoulders / it reaches inside / gutted by what it sees / one by one / it examines each phrase / it takes everything out / replaces it with "no" / "I am not always wrong or right" / "what do I say?" / and slowly snips the strings off its shoulders / so it can walk freely.
Apr 14, 2022
Apr 14, 2022 at 9:22 PM UTC
the laddering of my ribs creak
like water-stained cherrywood stairs;
tread lightly, lest you
stir the dust and the ghosts
that dwell underfoot,
‘neath the cracked floorboards
of my skin.
i have but a simple request:
rid yourself of your lungs
and fill up the empty spaces
with used coffee filters,
crinkled wrapping paper, and
forlorn hope. do
cast aside
the shroud of indecision?, for
that winding sheet will only
hold you down between
your shoulderblades, like
framed butterflies pinned on paper
with needles of stone and salt.
stay with me tonight.
we will be taxidermy birds
on marionette strings
with crumbled concrete
between our talons,
the afterimages
of neon diner signs
stamped into our inner eyelids
oscillating, phantasmic.
we'll sing elegies in spring
rock sugar on our tongues—
there are staves of music
written in the lining of your mouth
and in the webbing of your hands
––as Sappho might say:
girls, sweetvoiced.
oh! but to think
that the starfire in your eyes
could be extinguished
by the tears you shed;
i’ll return my heart to the constellations
for you
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 8:58 AM UTC
Tiny clumps of hair
Once caramel in color
Crumbles beneath the lowest
Lair of pallid
Trampled dust.
A lump in the back of my throat
Rises as the bone shows.
Our teeth have clanked
Collided in battle, our hooves
Finger-less and delving, we were
Ambiguously a hiatus in the water-color
Sticky like honey whilst Satan licks up my spine.
Burning sweet like the water that runs from the Nile
Into the mouths of every little insensate frame and comatose sky
Lacklustre pallor only children could buy.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
I sing along to drown out the voices
My sad playlist and I sit
listless
and I stubbornly ignore myself
If you can't say anything nice
then take your fingernails
and curl off my skin
starting at the genitals
effectively preparing me for taxidermy
Off I search
Alone is notsafe
Alone is smiling crookedly
from empty bones and a few yellow teeth
My naked pieces scattered carnage
on the dank floor of my cell
covered in hotel carpet
So ******
it almost gets me off
Reminds me of venereal hookers
and air freshener
which always results in tainted pleasure
So I put on my dark circles and bags under my eyes
to fit in
and I leave the thousand unlit cells
some empty
some containing rancid bits of pancreas
and I keep climbing blindly
I lost an eye in 14D
I humorlessly squished the other as I bent to pick it up
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:45 PM UTC
Meat for sale.
****** meat.
Face bled pale,
oh what a treat.
Pound of flesh.
Skin drying from a hook.
****** scalps top pretty dummies.
I am trying to read a taxidermy book.
Maybe stuffed bodies can make me some money.
Pound of flesh.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC
Little high, a little blow.
Rail thin.
Taxidermy.
Image of a scarecrow.
Give me one more dose.
For my health, just a bit to get by,
lips biting teeth,
****** in and strung out,
wide dough-boy eyes.
An infinite list behind her lips,
reasons pour as if she's a teapot tipped out
the half empty cup she sips.
Pinky poised for picking pieces,
these shards of a different kind.
On her skin they gleam like glitter
come to decorate her mind.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
Everyone has their daily struggles
But with depression it's more than doubled
I rise each day to face the sun
But a part of me just wants to run
To hide away and lock the door
Or **** someone and settle the score
The wounds inflected on me I can not hide
You can see them all plainly on every side
They are apart of me, inside and out
I've been prey to many, and my trophy head they mount
In their memory of victims, I'm another count
They did it slow, they took their time, in no hurry
Then sent me off to the f**king taxidermy
They cleaned me up and stuff in the saw dust
But all you see standing before you, is just my crust.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
I've been rightly doing taxidermy
More years than I care to count
Is it any wonder that I got bored
Stuffing Raccoon, Deer, and Antelope by the pound
So I went and changed around my tactics
And believe me things have been going swell
Since it's no longer only animals that I stuff
But people just as well
I went and opened up a funeral parlor
So the two I've now combined
Where I offer up the best of both
For one low extraordinary price
People are dying to get my services (Pardon the Pun)
From many miles around
They love the idea of being stuffed
Before they're plopped into the ground
Why some are even being stuffed
With their best friend sewed forever in their arms
To spend eternity with Buffy the Poodle
To me, holds at bit of charm
What ever position you want planted in
I am more than willing to please
Moon your friends a lasting goodbye
Is the special of the week
For those not sure where they're going
I'm an expert in stuffing the face
With a look of total surprise and confusion
In case they end up in the wrong place
How you wish to give your final farewells
We're not here to question why
But only to offer the One, Two, or Five Finger Special
In how you'd like to wave goodbye
So hurry and make those reservations
At Billy Bobs Taxidermy & Mortuarium
Cause we're stuffing it hard and heavy these days
Where it is we got it all going on
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
Everyone has there daily struggles
But with depression it's more than doubled
I rise each day to face the sun
But a part of me just wants to run
To hide away and lock the door
Or **** someone and settle the score
The wounds inflected on me I can not hide
You can see them all plainly on every side
They are apart of me, inside and out
I've been prey to many, and my trophy head they mount
In their memory of victims, I'm another count
They did it slow, they took their time, in no hurry
Then sent me off to the ******* taxidermy
They cleaned me up and stuff in the saw dust
But all you see standing before you, is just my crust.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 8:09 PM UTC
Grizzly bear lay on the library floor.
Just his skin, really.
The bratty kids spilling red fruit punch on him.
He didn't like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and he dreamed back.
Back to the taxidermy shop with its formaldehyde odor
And jars of glass eyes.
A fat man with a dull knife
Ripping his flesh from his bones.
He didn't like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and he dreamed back.
Back to when he was heaped onto the cold metal pickup bed
Piled crossways on top of two dead deer
His large head flopped on a cooler of smelly fish,
Exposed to the wind and snow
For hours.
He didn't like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and he dreamed back.
Back to the moment when bullet hit bone,
When his crystal clear vision darkened.
When his mighty roar was silenced
Forever.
He didn't like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and he dreamed back.
Back to the crisp fall mornings
Standing in the river
Feasting on salmon
Tall and proud
The master of his domain.
He liked being this way.
He dreamed hard to try to stay there.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
you won’t find me here. wrapped
in the wool of violent, vomit-soaked
******* we’ve made a mess on the
tables, with mulled red wine, beside
cockroaches. every inch of skin
pink and trembling beneath other skin.
you can expect this: one perfect little
throat sliced clean. cleaner than your
moans. for every finger pried inside
me, there are a hundred more
pushing up into you, until your moans
soften into screams.
the squelch of your **** as it pulls
apart, the pulp of your parts so
pleasant. we bathe in you. love, our
sequined slaughterhouse: we wanted it.
you can find me here: drawn up
tight in my taxidermy, among
ten dozen dead doves. their wire
bones crunch beneath your sneaker
when you approach the front of
that forest. the black iris of my sold
soul, now an eternity for us both;
you approach draped in morning
breath, content to bite the bugs
from my lips. we always kiss with
teeth, because we are always high.
here, where i live, you are shivering.
we are god’s golden children,
untouchable with fuzzy, white mouths
that click in hollowed-out howls,
imitating wolves, waiting for who falls
fast in love first. suspended there,
we sigh against the flies, how they
**** our skin with grease-slicked
tongues. our guts blackened by the
gun, shoved all the way inside, are
now dusted with sickness.
there is a smile against a smile. my
skin stretching as your skin. love
wrapped severe, twine around a finger,
where the blood swells and gathers.
there should be trumpets for our
sallow suicides. a banner in an office,
frosted chocolate cake. instead there
is a kindness: rain carves a ravine
out of the earth. we tumble down like
leaves into the cockroaches and left-
over wine. two black mouths in another
black mouth. nothing grows over where
we rot, but it doesn’t matter. they won’t
find us here. not a single foot will
fall into our worm-warped skulls. this
is, for you, some small comfort. but again,
it doesn’t matter. years will pass, and there
will never be enough teeth to claim for all
the small, mutual murders; nor for the way
we became our disease.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
A locked box has the bodies of three different birds, all blue, all lyricists, all beautiful and stuffed with Xanax and newspaper. I paid my childhood best friend's brother to taxidermy them, stitch up their stomachs once and for all.
My closet only has memories. A bracelet with a feather on it that smells like fear, looks like betrayal, **** dealer, track pants, self-proclaimed whiny ***** A painting I made when I was six. All the pills I stole from my boyfriend, thirty-seven. All the pills that would've knocked my world out cold, skin cold, heart still, pulse still, veins finally at rest. A knife a psychopath gave me. Yes, he was a romantic, and yes, he did ruin my life, so in essence, still just a romantic. A fox hat I bought standing next to one of my under appreciated best friends, recovered anorexic. He's at college right now, falling in something close to love, probably another early grave. A too big teddy bear from someone I thought was the formula for the speed of light once. He's trying to force feed pills and slip **** into all my friend turned surrogate son's sentences. I am wishing I could lay a curse on his name. His mother already did it for me.
A drawer beside my bed, packed full of **** Candy wrappers, gum, crumbs, marks of my self-proclaimed obesity, all 120 pounds of me feeling like the weight of the world and everyone's eyes. My inhaler, because these lungs don't want me to run. Pictures and letters from the ones I love, because I'm a romantic. Plastic dinosaurs, dried flowers, pennies, dimes, lotion, Neosporin, a deck of Tarot cards.
I'm just a vessel for all the things I can't fit inside my mouth. I can't tell into you what I've seen, I can only pull out the receipts. I can give you the ****** tissues my boyfriend handed me. Tell me how your stomach retches. I can give you the poem a crazy person wrote me. Tell me how you feel his void. I can give you my heart. Tell me how heavy it all is.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 1:37 AM UTC
Forsaken nature, effigy of happiness
Radiate in sunlight
Totem to the angel of Thanatos
We, entrenched
Bespoke emotions motivate
Harbinger of stupor
Potions point skyward
Circle of sticks
Drunk with madness, archaic/futurist
A belief in life
Moving in all directions, we breathe
Levitate tables
Combed, picked and sedated
Suppress with cotton
Impress the forgotten, bathed in meat
Drowning, trickled lists, dictate infinite
Omnipotent
Radical analysts
Broken adequate
Sirens to soothe sanctum
Toothless, pews and bare footed priests
Clogged with irreverence
Confusion of the afterlife
The one with bleach stained hands
On one knee, counterpart, gone, integral
Ghost babel, patriot of purpose
Purgatory swine
A costume to cleanse Virgil
Telescopes & ritual apathy
Broken bones, oxycodones
Entrance to ozone
Deficit sadly, intrinsic in photo
Delicate, diphenhydramine dreams
Pearlescent head
Ballooned shadows of paranoia
Fingers full of glue
Toxic shock
Risen thought, gaining pace
Emerging victorious
Whisped in black smoke
Mortal & pestle
White pills, insomnia
Perfect ratio
Golden and numeric
Pleasant, unintentional hero
White matter of fact
Carcass of industry
Severed cerebellum dotted in sentence
Coalition of morbid interest
Cryptozoology, mermaids and taxidermy
Not one leg to stand on
Held in high regard
Tranquil morals
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
You are the moose on the wall.
Hollow of all liveliness,
barren of all thought.
Apr 3, 2022
Apr 3, 2022 at 11:52 PM UTC
I'm just a taxidermy with a soul
but I've seen foxes on display that look better than me.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
Baby, don't you remember we love instant coffee?
Last summer, we explored the back roads of Texas
They were so dark and dry
Texas with its wild goats and red clay dirt
Its taxidermy and wind mills
Its faded billboard signs advertising
Boiled peanuts, adult cabarets or something else random
We spent all our money on gas and sugar
The stars never looked so big
Your face never looked more like heaven
We thought the world of each other
Last summer. Before the seasons changed the color of the leaves
Before we were forced to wear long pants and closed toe shoes
Before the cold air forced us to hide in our apartments
The landlord told me to lock my door
Strange things went on in that place at night
All they took were the broken hearts I kept in my big book of love
I hid in the closet
I had no time to get away
Last summer. When the morning sun shined through curtains in vain
And we laid in bed all day
Telling each other our dreams
I taught you how to be romantic
You taught me how to be brave.
I told people to keep in touch. Last summer.
They never do as I say
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
once upon a time, in the grand excavation
of tome,
you could actually,
put something of(f) yourself on
a shelf,
and be allowed the dignity
of: commentary
in the posthumous realm of:
the discovery of ideas;
can someone even
comprehend being stuffed...
by the current taxidermy
of the comment sections?
came the comment sections,
taxidermy & claustrophobia...
please: no attention ******* here...
the most addictive aspect of
listening to a radio station?
you can't rewind, repeat...
all and any song...
some say:
there are all the positives of
the audience being able
to interact
with the byproduct
of the person...
but it byproduct
rarely enjoys a per se status...
given that the person behind
the byproduct is always invoked...
like a demon with a bad
elocution of a spell...
books do not understand
likes, dislikes...
comment sections:
recommendations?
sure...
this whole, modern taxidermy
of the comment sections...
you'd start thinking that
alcoholics anonymous was bad...
wait until anonymity anonymous
comes about...
i just find it horrid,
that any book i own,
could also have a comments
section attached to it,
without, say,
a mediator,
akin to an english teacher,
the agora of a high school classroom...
and...
nothing of the sort
of cluster-fuck of
random commentary...
with nothing the sort
of a signity of: handwritting,
a postage stamp,
an envelope...
not even a d.m.,
but... a morbid caucus
of... nothing short of
raucous boat trip
over the Styx...
where, eventually...
half the people wouldn't
even make it to Hades,
instead: drowning in that thick
splotch of the mongrel-souls
cast into the waters of Styx:
purgatory.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 9:03 PM UTC