At a metal concert

                                     I’m one body in a smash of bodies.
All you mother fuckers, get low! 
Thousands of people squat, grinning. We move in little bounces, holding

              close to the ground, as the guitars build anticipation,

ready for                                                                                          the drop,

our collective knees thrust us up – we jump, bang heads, hands in the air –

                              wild sounds of drums, bass, guitar and vocals.
I want to see those devil horns, you mother fuckers.
My arms high, pinky and pointer fingers – horns up. I jump,

                                                    we’re all jumping, horns up.
By the end, we’re drenched in the collective sweat of the mosh.

              A woman in front has my spit in her hair, someone is covered in vomit –

                                                         probably not their own. We’ve been pushed

                              towards the stage, shoved

left and right – opening the pit. We’re flung into each other, leaping

										                                                   fists up.
Then, the singer says: thanks to all you mother fuckers here tonight

                                                                                  and the chicks

                                                         you’ve been great.
In the throng of black shirts and pit stains, I’m excluded.

I hate the rapey violence of mother fucker.

I’ve been head banging for four hours, pushing aside my feelings

to be part of the throng. 
Now, I think of my Mum. I once called her a fucking whore 

across the school playground.

She was a teacher.

I was in year 9.

                                                    She’d said I couldn’t go to a party.

                Everyone was going.

                              She knew there’d be drugs and alcohol, no

adult supervision.

                                                                                  Also, I wasn’t invited. 
Walking to the exit, I notice sticky floor, hear the crunch

              of discarded plastic cups, trip on a vape and the knowledge

that this band isn’t bludgeoning

                              against systems of oppression.

                                          This was never my metal,

                                                                                                 not my rage.
I’m that teenager again – not invited

                                                                        to the party – and I’m my Mum

                                                                                                                                       struck

by violent words.