Taxidermy Tiger

Frigid in false position,
The felines fate is to stare.
The puppeteer scoops brain and tweaks muscle,
perfecting the lifestyle of once frugal.

Black tar swirls around the predator's jaws,
writhing in anger and lust.
Grey fangs glean towards the non-existent prey,
removed from the twitching iris of the once nimble beast.
Red angry tears pattern along the frozen muscle,
Layered by bristled, chemical dipped flesh.

Excited, previously surrounding trees,
Press tongues with sweaty glass;
pantomiming prey.
The beast, imprisoned in death,
statically urges forward,
for the sugar blood of an infant.

Narcotic Crocs

Bath. Time:12.18 a.m. I watch from the safety of my Starbucks fortress, slightly murky windows due to condensation. I'm strangely intrigued by the homeless man, lying outside in the cold, enclaved grey slot between TK Max and Specsavers. The homeless man, Probably around age 50 something, is wrapped in a tar coloured waist coat that curls around his legs while his bum pushes against it. The absence of clothing around his ankles suggests he is wearing shorts of some kind. My eyes are famished by the lack of colour, until they reach the crocs. No colour describes them, just faded conception mixed with attraction to the objects that surround the ever changing, dotted crocs. They draw me in. I exist on their surface. I have set up, grew up, fucked up and died all on the buzzing material of these ethereal shoes. My mind, arrogantly assuming, jumps to the conclusion that these seductive cocs are made of plastic. I am not in a state to judge. I am sexually attracted to the negative space; the holes that expose flesh. Prickled hair runs through the absese holding spray that floats from the puddles adjacent.I have zoomed in on the crocs and my perception of the world had been consumed by the their attractive glow. All I see is burgundy.  I snap into normality, gasping for air as I break through the layer of my conscience. Bath. Time: 12.18 a.m. I was, over and over, repeating and revising the crocs in all shapes and forms. I had purely become the crocs wrapped around his grubby feet. I, in necessity, no clothes and shaved head, had wrapped myself as a tiny figure around his toes. I had clasped the layers of his skin, the folds on his soles. I had pulled him close to my chest, keeping his feet from touching the flat surface below.

We Need To Talk About Kevin - Book Recommendation

The book I would recommend for everyone is 'We Need To talk About Kevin'. The book is told through letters that the mother of Kevin writes to her husband, explaining how she is discovering what she did wrong to turn her son, Kevin, into a murderer. The premise of this book appeals to me because I like the idea of delving deep into the back ground of a psychotic murderer and reinforcing the view point that all children are born equal, it's the environment which messes them up.

Slugging Vodka

The peppery liquid runs through my parted lips. My nose retracts from the stench that emanates from the bottle top, coveting my eyes with its rough hands.Running along my tongue I get a taste of roadkill and over cooked bacon that drills beneath my jaw. Hitting the back of my throat, it stings and shrivels the parched layers, flooding the vocal tubes. Glug glug.

What I think it's like to be cocooned by an xenomorph

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0B0sFtRTlx4

I am existing in a state of paralysis with a constant sweat glazed across my forehead. My neck is clenched, and my muscles are throbbing and pulsating underneath my skin. Rapidly, my heart beats, coursing glacial blood around my limp carcass. A pinching sensation continually caresses my limbs from underneath my flesh as my inflamed eyes roll around in their deep sockets. A moist substance surrounds every crevice and fold of my body, grasping underneath my arm pits and crawling in between my toes. In a strong weave, the mucus guides my rib cage into my chest, preventing my lungs to fully expand when I inhale the dense, watery air. I lack the strength to lift my eye lids but I can hear the air wobbling around my exposed ears. My face has been left exposed to the thick drafts and steam that relentlessly traipse around. Beneath my encased gut, my stomach feels heavier than usual, as if a cat had curled up inside it.