A twist

of the

intestines.

A night

without

sleep.

Anxiety

in an impatient

hallway.

A slow inventory

assessment

of ones life

while

awaiting results.

The

immediate

flash

at the moment of impact.

An

evening

in

horror

while the negotiators

talk them out.

Twenty brothers

on the front-line marching

through the rain

of

fire.

Method acting

a normal version of oneself

wondering

if any passersby

saw the malevolence

performed

behind the club

under

the

broken

streetlight.

The atheist

begging

for the Almighty

magic.

A lifetime of butterflies and nostalgia from events that are idealized in comparison to what sucks in the now.

The sludge of today, becomes the "I wish it was like it used to be" in a few years.

Not that the future gets worse. I just live in a historical facade.

Every fucking day sucks - sucked - will suck.

Even if the calloused scars rest their crooked heads for just one moment - enough to allow a genuinely appreciable impression - when they awake, be it a second or a century, this too shall pass.

Any trace of warmth in a heart are certain to be extinguished and buried within the layers of repression inspired knots I could not untwist.

Took a ferry.

Across a sea of broken nails.

Faded arrow.

Pointing to me, ways that I could fail.

Hallowed juries.

Belching flames of my despair.

Baited sparrow. Singing in tongues, three ways that I could fail

A skulless eye box.

Presented with candor, lust, and care.

Lucid marrow.

Etched with prophetic methods to how I have failed.

By the age of fifteen I had accepted the familiarity of my mom's saliva.

An improperly placed dish became a hair-pin boobie trap at the fault of anyone in the vicinity of a boney fist to the throat or a violent spit to the face. Her son's face. Mine.

Had television heroes like Fonzie not taught me the ways of the fist, I may had retorted with a kick in the cunt. But I was a good kid - the vinyl siding would suffice. By the time my fist pierced through the inner layers of fiberglass, the shallow depths of my skin would eventually compress to bone as it met blocks of cinder. That's when the mind would rupture and the fury of pain and torment would depart just enough to set us all back to psychotically neutral.

Afterwards I'd usually hate fuck my bike - down at the local school yard which we adapted home-built transitions to yield our white trash skatepark. I miss that place everyday of 30 years.

Other times I'd death march by her fractured glass screams that tore like old rusted shreds of sheetmetal ripping and infecting the innocence of a young malleable spirit that was on a full path towards positivity. Instead, I'd lock myself in the bedroom listening to old thrash records while stairing at the wall-to-ceiling collages of pics I'd get from trading magazines internationally with brotheren metal heads from all stretches of the planet.

Kreator, Morbid Angel, Pestilence, Entombed, and Unleashed used to give me the most hope. Happy dudes with the same internal storms as I, yet their walls were their guitars, and their fist was that cyclical energy exchanged between show performers and pit parishioners.

We danced hard and wore our battle scars proud. We'd never discuss the next day's scabs in school with the civilians. It wasn't a badge. It wasn't a trend or style. In fact no one knew nor gave a fuck. Thrash metal and hardcore was as cool to the world as was BMX - no one fuckin cared. And that's how we were right in the world. Alone with our circle of freaks and outcasts. Genuine. Passionate. Understood.

We all came from blue collar towns with moms that would wake you up with a bare foot to the face.

We reserved our emotional explosions from our families but with each mindfuck repressed, it was like filling a spring loaded chamber until there's zero negative space between the turns of the rings and the spring is at its utmost tension.

Under that pressure it usually would take a very minor conflict of a stranger, teacher, or jerkoff school classmate to release the land mind that results in "...oh my god he seemed like such a nice kid...what the fuck happened"

I'd always feel guilty after a release. Shows and the pit helped counter the incidences so I spent a lot of time sneaking to Philly, Trenton, and Delaware to any show that came through town. The scene was our church. The slamming, skanking, moshing, and diving was our meds. Post shows would always smell of cheap underarm deodorant and the club roof would always steam no matter the time of year.

The energy inside literally created usable power and that was evident in the smoking rooftops, to the hugs and smiles afterwards. We compelled physical and emotional change.

I'd return home. My mom would be cool again and I'd been purified and cleansed knowing that no one else needs to treat me well or understand me. For them I will remain "weird". For the school psychiatrist I would remain "a minor threat". For me, I'm gonna stick by my bike, my music, and look forward to the next friendly violent fun.