by Matt Ronquillo
Terror Creak is the name I took from a bunch of friends
off six different dimensions.
None of which had pens or the will to invent them.
Hence this theft. I ripped them off.
I sold our discordant scraps to Earth.
They’re still stuck in days of incomprehensible screams.
I’ve become the guy I never even saw coming;
singing. Not sure if you can hear the way
weird heads talk, but that’s them.
A heartless group-ditcher went and took off solo;
took a shot at cutting a strike through
the mass comm oddness of your direction
in your dimension. You threw me a few seconds.
This gig I got
talking to the folk in your head;
if you want to inner-head friend mix,
and tired of the ones in yours,
I’m tired of the voices in mine.
Here it go.
On the hypothetical, proverbial guitar.
Lost on stage.
Drumming into a corner that won’t shut the hell up.
Dancing bass drops. Individual toed socks
about to kick a rainbow up somebody’s ass.
I don’t know what it means either
except how it’s the manifestation of the outlet
which somehow exists for people like we,
who dont deserve this type of royalty (as far as my limited understanding of this planet continues to go).
Look. A metal star hits the forefront of a cross dimensional stage, and he’s reacting off millions of risen hands which are representations of people who don’t really exist,
and he’s too jacked on ego and everything else.
Realizing this in writing lyrics to ourselves,
how we shouldn’t be talking with our own influences,
we’d dance with them regardless.