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The Masochism of the Punk
September 15, 2014
My chest is pressed against a metal grate
And I'm screaming at the top of my lungs.
No one notices
My face is being melted by a wall of vibration
Coming from instruments of destruction.
The crowd melts, too.
My heart beat is manipulated by a dragging rhythm
That crawls full of angst and spite.
They all nod.
My hands are thrown into the air, showing my utter helplessness
At the mercy of the sounds.
They play on.
My body is released and I trudge my boots
Through mud and muck and confetti.
We all smile.
© Anthony C., Shelby Twp, MI
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