
Feral Yell — A Collection of Words; Stage One and Two
Savage
I fell through the sky with my hands bound tight, spinning around, losing my sight. And the colors were in the air forming an arc of selfish delight. I fly through my life doing the best that I can, but I always come crashing down like a shitty Peter Pan. I cautiously flirt with the idea of us creating chapels of sounds — building transcendent verses of hymns spiraling around and around. I allow my shadow to lead me by the hand, but that’s a regression like a shitty Peter Pan.
We make our own medicine in basements of music. We worship patterns in the sand; carved out the ruins. We’re a new emerging species of people hell bent on doing what we please.
I’m gonna need you to come to the stage so I can see the whites in your eyes. I’m gonna need you to dance, dance out of your goddamn mind because that’s the only way we’re going to get this right. Now do your best, do your best and dance out of your goddamn mind.
Friends With the Monster
Keep me inside or I might die. The truth is linear time rifles through my mind. Try on the different outfits, but there’s only one that fits. Sadly, at this moment, it’s buried deep in your closet. I’ll try, oh I’ll try, to field any questions you might have tonight.
Should have kept this in mind when you tried to accost her: Even the nicest of guys become friends with the monster. They mapped out a grid and search party to find her, but it’s a delicate thing once you’re friends with the monster.
White Cactus & the Devil
Sticking to my lips as I swallow you down — sticking to my lips as I drink in your clouds. You greeted me with your heart held in your hand. You said, “I’ve never felt it beat to a rhythm quite like this. I want to run away, but I feel like that’s a mistake. Yeah, I feel like I should stay.”
That same mouth that spoke such lovely sonnets; now, it’s filled up from back to brim with vomit.
Sticking to your lips as I open you up wide — sticking to your lips, broken ribs releasing a sigh. In grass you laid with me, lavender grown around our sides. I said, “I’ve never felt this way.” Tears matching your flush, freckled face. “I want to run away, as I’m scared of what this is, but I feel like I should stay. Will you have me if I stay?”
Toros
He says, “I’ve been hung before. It just didn’t take.”
When pushed down and told what’s right, sooner or later a beaten dog bites. He bites back.
We locked ourselves in rooms together. Explored our bodies until we were found out. We were only 9 years old, and only the church said we were sinful. So I wave my red cape in front of the bull that they’ve named as their true savior.
Screaming, “Undress me.” Tear me down to my core; keep me open and on display for all to adore.
We peeled off the scabs of all our past selves, and buried our bodies under blankets in bathtubs. Communing with what is and what is not — an anonymous question folded up in the prayer box.
You’re the last person I ever knew, and I’m sorry I held you feet to the fire as I watched the smoke billow and bloom all around your garden. I can see the bottom of everything. In the sky, the sea, and between the two like us form a symmetry.
Marigold I: The Sound of Drums
Drill through my sides — everything is different on the inside. Four arms, twenty digits assembled on a manufacturing line. I’m not supposed to feel gentle brushes against my cheek and it’s real, tough love, kissed moon. Hikage smiled and with it my heart bloomed. Faded night to day. This bar’s my pillow, pelted glass by the rain. Sand coat, slightly vintage. Bouquet buttons embossed with galvanized stain. I keep this job I hate. Organizing a rise against Abel’s state. They call me Salem the Mammoth, picture-perfect for all the lives at stake.
I’m sitting alone drinking oil to the SOUND OF DRUMS. Belt tied tight around my waist, and a bandaged thumb. Abled malcontent with the life of my siamese blood. Barrel chest and fuse-boxed eyes, bushel steam from my hide.
I rode atop a WHALE with futuristic sails. Now, it’s in your ears. Can’t stop the sound of beating drums.
Marigold II: Impossible Astronaut
Don’t let it slip through your hands. You speak of air. Yet, you don’t call it god. He redefined the edges of my room with his presence. Every run of his hand like fabric, every pierce of his gaze like magic. A herald heard boisterous out of his mouth like a trumpet. Every hum of his passage, penetrating like static. I swear the line will hold, I’m not going down. This day, I’m not meant to drown.
As the boy callously wavers, throat parched from dried-up water. He knows what it means to be wanted. Hypothermic shakes from his fervor. Every drop of honey spilt slowly. A love story mirrored the tragedy.
Today, I’m not meant to drown.
No, today… I’m Hikage. Searching for my love, my Mammoth in the ice age. Every drip of blood, every rhyme of reason. The search mystified, changing leaves by the seasons. The resolution’s too low, the screen pixelated. Thinking back to the time when I was just a child with stubs for antlers and dreams for futures.
Presented in stereo across technicolor lakes, called the man, the myth, the legend, or you fill in the blanks. And he said to me, “Salvation comes at a price.” Right before freezing the love of my life. Searching the city, broken out into thirds. Every corner, every street, void of the laughter of birds.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, unless I adapt to you. How can I see this through? Unless I adapt to you. I name you a faulty program, refracted light of a shoddy hologram.”
Little boy, little boy. Oh you silly little boy. Played the game, rolled the dice. Fortune favored the ice. Frozen heart, frozen soul, came back because I loved you whole. Even together, I’m the fool.
Marigold III: Mammoth, Salesman
It’s in our behavior. Man must control nature. Everyone’s looking to call me saviour. Won’t you call me savior?
They’re gonna do my bidding, I’ll build their thoughts from scratch. My city on the backs of slavory, shackled down key to latch. They’re gonna worship my name, drowning trials and theories dashed. Synthetic people to my patriarchy—binary husk of metal-made math.
When I say I’ve got a craving, will you turn on me? Jaw to pavement frequency and color copies now set free. When I scream, “ANARCHY!” will you have my back? Listen to my soliloquy: Can’t you see the deck is stacked?
Compiled in the annals of history: A man, a woman, and the beast of an offspring. My legacy brought forth the need for domination over this city. I never wanted any of this; to be the one they called the Transhumanist. You tell my story for your kids to hear—a blank smile from ear to ear.
You don’t want to play this game with me. Mammoth, I’ll take out your teeth.
Marigold IV: Ijō
I’ve watched the story of a girl [pink hair and fire drown]. Seen the forbidden love of two, but for you the man comes around [oh yeah, he comes around].
We are machine. But I’m anomaly.
You are here, but I am all of thee. Think of me as the last character. When left alone long enough, will they turn the gun on themselves? When I scratch the wound at my ribs, will they feel that point on my skin swell? The whole of mankind from the hole of my mind are parallel universes inside of me.
Or is it, I am anomaly.
Into the mind I am the watcher. The storyteller screaming, “COMA!”
