In the mosh pit even the unluckiest get a chance to dance akimbo. They bring their hands to each other and loofah.
In the mosh pit it’s a burning of our previous body, the one that taught us how to dance in synchronicity.
Hierarchies bicker with lowerarchies. Everything flies by. Everything feels like a boulder on the cheek.
Alignment and spacing are frivolous.
Look! someone says from the fractal edge of the mosh pit which has undergone thousands of iterations and now resembles Bette Davis. Oh, look!
She throws her body into our midst and is divided among us like a steak.
With vengeance she swings softballs into space.