Slampit Etiquette

The hardcore band doesn't notice,
too busy thrashing,
nor do the slamdancers,
too busy bashing,
but, being bored,
I do.

Oi Boy has retired
from the evening's stagediving
and retreated to the
edge of the slampit,
where he has latched
onto a black-haired beauty,
much to her regret,
I'd say,
based on the way
she leans away.

He is yelling,
but thinks he is whispering,
the secret to life,
the secret that is hazy
when one is sober
but gets clearer and clearer
the more alcohol one drinks.

She listens politely,
but I can tell that
she doesn't want to
feel his hot breath,
smell his long unwashed body
and longer unwashed clothing,
hear his bullshit philosophy,
look at his snot-crusted noserings,
and as for taste,
I'm guessing,
based on her expensive
pretorn clothing,
that Milwaukee's Best
has never been good
enough for her.

28 July 2014