we dance like animals fighting,
kicking and screaming in close quarters.
the group smells of stale beer and cigarettes
and anything else we’re wearing that doesn’t get washed.
boots clash on boots
and spikes scrape together in a violent love affair, mashing and molding
into each others crevices,
tearing at clothes not equipped with such armor.
Our bodies slamming like ocean upon rock, creating a spray of sweat cast from our brows.
sometimes there is blood, and you may get it on you
but don’t complain because when you decided to come to a punk show
you should have known what you were getting into.