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,
Salute, respect, challenge,
And the beat kicks in.
And the whole world blurs like a picture,
Lost in a world of anger,
Pain dulled to an ache,
And still in the centre, the Mohawk, rises,