Miss Mosh

Dance, little sister, dance

Stomping on in dervish manner in leather and laced martens to driving groove

Playing doctor nursing spiked hair pointing cutting sky high and angry

The mosh pit grinds to a screeching halt with gaped mouths and curious furious stares

As a little sister punk-ette all in pitch black and chains from ear to toe shining with thorn rosey cheeks from the steamy heat of body to body

she approaches the monstrous mash with thunderous bravado smashing in like juicy grapes plucked from twisted vines

Starting in with steady stance stunning the Holsteins of the night until she wants to go home

Twisting into flesh like a corkscrew music pulses and throbs deep plucking

out note for note beat for beat

Chains and cat-o-nine tails flick up towards cracking sound barriers through

limelight shadowing out the glow of beaded sweat and spinning bodies

Bested and staid smokescreens shiver on stage with mics badgered with gutteral

As the cacophony settles into syncopation peppered with salt to a wound

amplifying sound into melting earwax like frost in sun

Ruining again angst strapped up shoots from tips of boots laced

leather taut as the pain subsides in her head as the pit grows wilder

Dance, little sister, dance

The night is yours and you are young

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