Mohawk standing like a battle flag,
Darkened eyeliner, metal-cut nose and lips,
Flesh carved into words exposed on his bare back,
Low slung belt, with chain heavy jeans.
Back held strong, feet planted wide,
Slowly nodding head, and revolving arms,
Keeping pace with the beat
Waiting for breakdown
Neck tensed, fist clenched,
Eyes trained, arms wide,
Hands beckoning,
Salute, respect, challenge,
And the beat kicks in.
And the whole world blurs like a picture,
Lights spin,
Bodies compact,
Clashing,
Whirling,
Twisting away,
Lost in a world of anger,
Pain dulled to an ache,
Ignored
And still in the centre, the Mohawk, rises,
Thanks Sal you took me back a few years to the pit at a Slayer show, in my misspent youth! ! I enjoy reading your work. Thank you. Kindest Regards Slim.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
this is a good piece your words drew a picture in my mind of what you were seeing you have a nice style of writting keep going