He bathes the dead animals with formalin
so they could stood up behind glass boxes,
a lowly taxidermist at that.
Reminds me of Juanito, an ex-lover, the writer.
A shame.
Well, what's the difference?
Ink or pungent formaldehyde
both men are scavengers of some kind
living on cadavers instead of morsels.
More have been glad to meet a farmer,
under the sun his sweat would be precious gasoline,
unlike him, even his thoughts smell
barbaric.
'Say, what's use of dead things to collect?
Museums?
They only show you what's dead and gone---
A kind of toll you have to pay
To feel uncomfortable after what you will see on those pretentious halls.
Then this man toys with the rules
doesn't believe in heaven or hell
or decomposition,
only in the gruesome preservation.
Can't decide if he's a death god
or a fertility god's Hitler
exalting the past like an insolent fool.
Another Juanito, isn't he?
That writer tried reviving the old days with his smart mouth.
Well, what is the difference?
But the past is not a dead racoon
a random car has ran over
that he can mummify.
What did I said to Juanito back then?
Oh, I said emotions are tokens
you put on coin slots
and after the song ends on the machine,
you just need another one.
Everything else are extra baggage.
And so I wanted to wave goodbye
at this taxidermist, I do,
when I left Juanito, he left me with a bitter poem,
so I'm not gonna wait for this guy to send a dead baboon inside a glass box.
I certainly don't want to receive that.
What an utter shame.
'Say, what's use of dead things to collect?
More have been glad to meet a farmer.
But strangely, why do I keep on mentioning Juanito?
