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.