Feral Brain
Feral Brain
a poem by H. Bradford
Everything feels foreign.
A house full of strange objects.
A body shaped by strange rules.
People are rituals.
That one’s a party,
but where’s the surprise?
Meaning is the meat of domestication,
It softens the teeth
and shortens the jaw.
The world is roads
and prisons
and wars.
But there must be some wilderness left in the frontier of
our genes.
A germ or a seed.
Some small part that wasn’t commodified,
colonized,
or atomized.
There is still some flight and fight
in the feral brain.
For now,
we only howl
at the absurdity of it all.