i once stole a store mannequin

[axasos]

"i once stole a store mannequin"

because i imagined myself as her messiah, offering 
salvation in which she did not and cannot
pray for. seventy-four days had passed and still the same 
finger-print painted window mocked her vacant stare, 
alcohol-bleached dust nesting in those false polyester pockets
which draped over childish hips. she wanted to be 

an object of desire, elbows and knees bruised powdery white but
nonetheless virgin, a sign of pointless nubilities and painless 
dismissals. instead, dollar-store needles sewed up her plaster skin
as if they were stitching on embroidery in place of the
absence of Saint Laurent. 

to be honest, i once stole that store mannequin 
because i imagined myself as her, hands exposed and folded from
all obligations. my presence a fleeting thought, occupying space
for two seconds until it becomes a scrap of faux fur gone astray.
perhaps i’d catch a few acquaintances before the fashion turns old

again and i am no longer committed to memory. the life of 
eternal anonymity is a one-way transaction, promising discounts
off of the regrets and recompense i am supposed to 
forgive. occasionally, i need only blink to forget that i’ve
joined the soldiers and poor, all three of us so pitifully disremembered
we offend those who are still able to rejoice.

so even with an overcast tight over her mouth forbidding
all but that distant line, even with her involuntary silence 
that invites scorn, if you stand close enough you’ll hear
a patient, cut-flower sound of someone who is waiting
to die.

[Miley]

I wrote a long comment to this one, than my computer crashed and I lost it! So... I'll be a little brief. I thought the title was intriguing. You created a unique world through your images that reminded me of all of the abandoned shopping malls in the US. I wondered if the poem wasnt a critique on capitalism and the effects it has the psyche. It was a very psychological poem with uncanny and haunting vibes. I'm not sure what the intended effect of the lack of capitalization was, Im sure theres a precedence for it with other poets, but does it support the content of this poem? In my mind it makes things more diminutive, or like the narrator is whispering. I would experiment with cutting sentences, or even half/whole stanzas and seeing how it effects the read of the poem. My feeling is that much can be cut that isn't nesciarlly getting to the core of what the poems trying to say, whatever that it. I enjoyed the read! Thanks for sharing, and this is all just my 2cents (:

"i once stole a store mannequin"

because i imagined myself as her messiah, offering 
salvation in which she did not and cannot Not sure if you need the enjambment here. 
pray for. seventy-four days had passed and still the same Is seventy four important?
finger-print painted window mocked her vacant stare, 
alcohol-bleached dust nesting in those false polyester pockets
which draped over childish hips. she wanted to be  I love the images in the second half of this stanza... Im not sure if its describing the mannequin before or after she was stolen. Alchol-bleached and finger-print may be a bit too much, but again they are evokative lines

an object of desire, elbows and knees bruised powdery white but
nonetheless virgin, a sign of pointless nubilities and painless  All this about desire and virgin is both funny and disturbing Funny in the sense that they are literally true, the mannequin is a virgin, and in some ways you acknowledge the way we sexualise adolescence in advertising material. But I also wonder about the narrator projecting psychology onto this thing, which strikes me as creepy.
dismissals. instead, dollar-store needles sewed up her plaster skin Is plaster the right word? Feels a little too... natural? antiquated? 
as if they were stitching on embroidery in place of the
absence of Saint Laurent.  Haunting and funny

to be honest, i once stole that store mannequin 
because i imagined myself as her, hands exposed and folded from
all obligations. my presence a fleeting thought, occupying space
for two seconds until it becomes a scrap of faux fur gone astray. I dont understand the scrap of faux fur. The mannequin wouldnt becom fur, or is this a new metaphor? and what does fox fur do when it goes astray.
perhaps i’d catch a few acquaintances before the fashion turns old

again and i am no longer committed to memory. the life of 
eternal anonymity is a one-way transaction, promising discounts I think the lines here dealing with store lingo are really effective and witty
off of the regrets and recompense i am supposed to 
forgive. occasionally, i need only blink to forget that i’ve
joined the soldiers and poor, all three of us so pitifully disremembered
we offend those who are still able to rejoice. Why does the narrator relate to this feeling of being disremembered? Im not sure I need to know but I also want more than self loathing. 

so even with an overcast tight over her mouth forbidding
all but that distant line, even with her involuntary silence 
that invites scorn, if you stand close enough you’ll hear
a patient, cut-flower sound of someone who is waiting
to die. The poem dosn't really bring me to this final line. I think the idea of the quite mannequin making a subtle indication of its interiority could be effective. But waiting to die? Maybe its because mannequins are not really alive, or you've already explained the mannequins feeling of suffering in much more vivid language throughout the poem. 

[TranquillityBase]

"i once stole a store mannequin"

because i imagined myself as her messiah, offering 
salvation in which she did not and cannot
pray for. seventy-four days had passed and still the same 
finger-print painted window mocked her vacant stare, 
alcohol-bleached dust nesting in those false polyester pockets                    simply "lint" ?
which draped over childish hips. she wanted to be 

an object of desire, elbows and knees bruised powdery white but
nonetheless virgin, a sign of pointless nubilities and painless 
dismissals. instead, dollar-store needles sewed up her plaster skin
as if they were stitching on embroidery in place of the
absence of Saint Laurent.                                                        couldn't quite follow what's meant here.  are the clothes sewn into her skin?            

to be honest, i once stole that store mannequin 
because i imagined myself as her, hands exposed and folded from
all obligations. my presence a fleeting thought, occupying space
for two seconds until it becomes a scrap of faux fur gone astray.
perhaps i’d catch a few acquaintances before the fashion turns old

again and i am no longer committed to memory. the life of 
eternal anonymity is a one-way transaction, promising discounts
off of the regrets and recompense i am supposed to 
forgive. occasionally, i need only blink to forget that i’ve
joined the soldiers and poor, all three of us so pitifully disremembered
we offend those who are still able to rejoice.

so even with an overcast tight over her mouth forbidding               not sure what you are describing here except that her lips a sealed 
all but that distant line, even with her involuntary silence 
that invites scorn, if you stand close enough you’ll hear
a patient, cut-flower sound of someone who is waiting
to die.

A few suggested cuts and a couple of places where I was confused by the imagery.  the rest of the poem is a very interesting read.  since you say you stole (now possess) the mannikin, i'm wondering if there is not more you could say about that.  if you are in possession of her that is, what did you do with her and where did she end up?  it sounds more like you were possessed by the mannikin, you were the one stolen.  do we have a changeling situation here?

TqB

[Wjames]

"i once stole a store mannequin"

because i imagined myself as her messiah, offering 
salvation in which she did not and cannot
pray for. seventy-four days had passed and still the same 
finger-print painted window mocked her vacant stare, 
alcohol-bleached dust nesting in those false polyester pockets
which draped over childish hips. she wanted to be 

an object of desire, elbows and knees bruised powdery white but
nonetheless virgin, a sign of pointless nubilities and painless 
dismissals. instead, dollar-store needles sewed up her plaster skin
as if they were stitching on embroidery in place of the
absence of Saint Laurent. 

to be honest, i once stole that store mannequin I don't think you need "once" again here.
because i imagined myself as her, hands exposed and folded from
all obligations. my presence a fleeting thought, occupying space
for two seconds until it becomes a scrap of faux fur gone astray.
perhaps i’d catch a few acquaintances before the fashion turns old beautiful stanza (and the ending of the sentence in the next stanza is very nice too).

again and i am no longer committed to memory. the life of 
eternal anonymity is a one-way transaction, promising discounts
off of the regrets and recompense i am supposed to 
forgive. occasionally, i need only blink to forget that i’ve
joined the soldiers and poor, all three of us so pitifully disremembered
we offend those who are still able to rejoice. This stanza is weak to me, it's very wordy, and I think it's mostly implied in the previous stanza - I would cut or re-work this part myself.

so even with an overcast tight over her mouth forbidding
all but that distant line, even with her involuntary silence 
that invites scorn, if you stand close enough you’ll hear
a patient, cut-flower sound of someone who is waiting
to die. Very nice ending.

I really enjoyed this, it was unique and interesting. I don't have many specific pieces of critique, other than that the second to last stanza could be improved. "the life of eternal anonymity is a one-way transaction, promising discounts off of the regrets and recompense i am supposed to forgive." It is overly complicated, and doesn't elicit feeling from me. The soldiers and the poor stuff in the following sentence is a little cliche and weak as well (to me).

I hope you post some more, I like this.