"mosh" poems
These vans on my feet are *****
Dripped on by the blood of a won basketball game.
Dirt covered from the many mosh pits.
Torn on from my longboard grip.
Rubber grey from long walks.
Bled through tie die from lots of running
Brown stains from standing in the woods
Broken eyelets from a forgotten drunk night.
Missing shoelace caught in a bicycle wheel.
Only to be replaced.
Just like my love.
Like my summer.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
Lately I have been thinking about reasons to live, not because I am suicidal or I am ready to die, at least not now. I have been thinking about reasons to live because I have started to take the path of least resistance. I am no longer living I am merely alive, I wake up, survive, wake up, survive, wake up, survive. I wake up and I survive, and that’s it. So I made a list, of reason to stay alive.
1. Laying in the grass in the middle of summer
2. Dancing in the rain
3. Learning stupid, pointless skills
4. You never know, My Chemical Romance could come back
5. Going for long walks alone
6. Concerts
7. Mosh pits
8. Pulling all nighters that you regret the next day
9. Laying in the grass watching the clouds
10. Driving aimlessly in the country
11. Road trips
12. Spending time with your best friend
13.Sleeping until noon
14. There is someone, even if it is one person, who cares
13, wait 14, no 15, that’s right
15, you are probably better at counting than I am...
Finally, you should stay alive just for the reason of living life to the fullest. Stay living to prove those who said you can’t wrong, stay alive to see every state every country, stay alive to prove to yourself that you are stronger than the **** that is happening around you, stay alive if not for your self stay alive for you family your friends, hell, stay alive for your dog because life is meant for living...
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
<music>
<en-nan nin nin en-nan et dan>
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
COME ON, COME ON, COME ON!
<music>
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
<music>
...a pen, a floor, A CAGE,
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
<music>
ON THE FLOOR, down you go-oo,
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
Caught in, caught in, caught-up again,
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP!
COME ON, COME, COME ON!
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
ON THE FLOOR, down you go-oo,
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
<musical break>
.
.
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP,
COME ON, COME ON, COME ON!
It's the Bra-Hi STOMP!
<fade out>
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
i am abrasive
personality functionality deficit
yet i attract
beautiful women
to befriend the hermit of solidarity
will you go out with me
brought answers on no
my friend i could not lose
yet for the end of altruistic bargaining
i end up ahead
with false promises of a beginning
to an end my own personal
apocalypse
david lee roth would understand
that as i write in this
mindset
brought on by reading
778 comics in 12 hours
and a 4 day binge of job for a cowboy
my mind wanders
as insomnia sets in
would i be one of the great
dissociative poets?
a dose of the unrequited free associative minds
free thinking form of diet coke with a side of purple strawberries no i meant blueberries
my mind wanders
and yet i look forward to pad thai on wednesdays with cute blondes whom with i stand
the chance of a bat in the mosh pits of a metal band
suckers
i win
for you all know the taste of yellow mustard
ramble ramble ramble
this indie pop poem
would it be ironic to like it
if one truly hates the wording
and yet loves the idea
one of lives greatest life mysteries
alcohol i bid thee a fair welcome
nimble bubblegum monkey wrench
how long will you read?
enough to to see my lack of coherent sentence structure
or that i am a flawed creation
going on and on about existential non existent problems
for i shall exist regardless of my best intentions
as the wheel continues to roll on despite the moss covering this ice slicked track
metal boar slayer of a thousand suns would be a good metal name from sweden
the mooring dove coos to the beat of an undead drum
boo hoo boo hoo cries the witch at the stake
i am done
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
O' Warped Tour
On the hot blacktop we stand
In front of your various stages
The beautiful bands grace us with their angelic,
or if they prefer, demonic, voices.
O' Warped Tour
The people we meet
Girls in bikinis
Boys with ****** noses
Teenagers sitting on shoulders
O' Warped Tour
Mosh pits in the front
Singing in the back
Crowd surfing
To running circle pits
O' Warped Tour
With your merchants
And band autographs
With your cigarette smoke
And crazy teens
With your summer days
And loud music
We never want to leave
O' Warped Tour
We love you
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
There's the mosh...sordid details that thing...
creeping of sort...retelling...to stay in focus.
A silent film whose black borders encapsulate
a slab of skyward white.
Visages...opening...opened...to interpretation.
"The apparition of these faces in a crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough."....ashen...
daguerreotype of a Zen Garden.
All of nature's pretties cast in an occult brew...
stirred, and stirring...composite sketches posted
and burned upon lampposts.
At large...ritualistic making-of-face...illusion
trafficking the ever present primes of lives...
"the center of which is everywhere, the
circumference nowhere."...attestation o' mugs.
Visages...plucked from a year of our lord,
to be...rendezous of all light's putting to...
years thereof.
Alien unto thyself...oogly boogly, yet mirror-imaging...
behold/beheld/beholden.
By sleight of Hand...visages, who'd otherwise
be as soon pruned and leathery, inanimate under the
sun.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
we worried for Your s.a.n.i.t.y.
when Michael Bublé and Metallica
wore matching sailor suits. we warned You.
failed interventions toed the line
between crafted clichés and comprehensible,
misguided attempts to paste bits and pieces
of the Pyramids back together.
You know they were stolen, right?
the pharaohs were ****** — drunk on
the melodies of doorbells and
bits and pieces of clichés crafted at a Metallica concert.
brave the mosh pit.
You may catch a glimpse of
sarcophagi gleaming in torchlight.
don't lift the lid, for the love of
g.o.d.!
those sailor suits have been preserved for centuries.
"Do Not Disturb."
the doorbell
won't work now,
not now that Michael Bublé's bubble burst.
can You blame us for screaming into
microphones? maybe the bits and pieces of clichés You swept
into neat little piles after footfalls die down
torch-lit corridors will
shake the Pyramids.
at the very least, ring a doorbell.
"d.o. n.o.t. d.i.s.t.u.r.b."
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
I keep seeing her
in post-traumatic
flashbacks
back to back
she's bound
in a little
black dress
Tearing through
the mayhem
the mosh pit
of my mind
To save me
Some punk princess
archetype
always
in another castle
castrating
the *******
symbol
Because she's
'O so liberated
...So I decorated her
With a pearl necklace
Old patriarchal
habits
die hard
Honey
Sweet
Nectar
Ambrosia
Summoned
from my
sacral chakra
Come
my
Goddess
Come
my
Goddess
Come
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
why can't family be family again
we used to always be friends
we used to huddle together
whenever we got scared
we felt the warmth in one anothers arms
because we knew the love was there
we used to build forts out of whatever we had in our rooms
and wage sars
throwing pillows, books, and brooms
we used to have mini mosh pits
with just the four of us
we headbanged and pushed
we screamed and pretended to cuss
we used to protect eachother
we used to defend one another
we used to stand together like brothers and sister
when mom punished us we would all resist her
we used to be a family
a family that would always care
we used to be a family with more happiness than despair
we used to be a family that never hogged food or air
we used to be a family that told eachother we were there
we used to be a family
a family that sat down toghether and ate
we used to be a family full of our own ideas that we create
we used to be a family that got along without debate
we used to be a family with more love than hate
so why can't family be family again
and remember why those times were so good
why can't family be family again
and treat eachother the way we should
why can't family be family again
and throw the hate away
why can't family be family again
and invite the love to stay
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
Mosh pit
at the Senior Center:
giving God the finger at 76.
Names no one heard of,
(bands long-dead
on their leather jackets)
still squatting anarchy,
arthritically smashing the State,
babbling Mao,
drooling Bakunin,
shocking the middle-class mores
as their Christian nurse
empties their bedpan
no sellout, etc.
Years
since ******** songs
were used for car commercials
on network T.V.
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 7:52 AM UTC
I fell down in the pit
And somebody stomped on my glasses.
People nowadays have no manners or compassion I swear.
All this pushing and shoving for material gain. Just sat right there on the floor and cried so.rude.
I just wanted a nice night out you know a good meal with a glass of wine and a little dancing.
Guess I'm going to call it a night.
Mosh Pit phobia for life.
Who knew.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
waiting, enter, music
enter, music, fans
music, fans, dance
fans, dance, mosh
dance, mosh, break
mosh, break, band
break, band, leave
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
“one day i will find the right words, and they will be simple.” - jack kerouac
pancakes on a sunday morning, jack daniel’s, getting really drunk then running naked through the forest, mosh pits, double rainbows, old trucks, freebandz, panic attacks, overflowing bubble baths, woodstock 1969, lemonade, slamming my head into wet pavement, the cranberries, jumping into someone’s arms after having gone years without seeing them, american spirits, crying, heavy metal music, innocence, laughing until a hospital visit is necessary, ragers, smiles on the faces of five year old children after stripping the shelves of a candy store bare, severe depression, the 90s, basketball hoops in driveways, putting on makeup at 1 AM, the mojave desert, life.
-z. vega
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 2:50 AM UTC
The song on the radio when you took
Your last suitcase out of my life
Was not poetically fitting
But still hurts all the same
You didn't give one last look back
But that doesn't mean I forgot your eyes
The last conversation didn't end well
But I remember your smile
You didn't leave on Valentine's Day
Your birthday, my birthday,
Or our anniversary
But that doesn't mean I won't cry next year
We never said forever
But I didn't mean so soon
I didn't change the locks
When I gave you space
I still draw your scars in my sleep
And wipe your tears from your cheeks during day dreams
But don't come back
I couldn't handle that
Don't text me at three in the morning
With whatever he won't do for you
I don't care how much tequila you've had
My heart is off limits
Your self esteem
Is no longer my responsibility
Civility not obligatory
I don't have quarters for your meter
And I am not happy for you
So don't come back
I couldn't handle disappointing you twice
We never had a song to dance to
Never lit a candle during ***
You weren't a long walks kind of girl
I'm not a mosh pit kind of guy
Poetry did not float your boat
And sailing is most definitely not the motion in my ocean
But none of that made sense until just now
We were a twister through a trailer park
A fire in the City of Bridges
Bullets in a slaughter house
Made lovers jealous
And parents regret
Built our foundation on sand
And said **** you to the ocean
Surfed tsunamis
And skied avalanches
And none of that seemed dangerous
Until just now
We complimented each other with insults
Threw stones in glass houses
Sang praises off key
Called it love
Smiled through an earthquake
Called it an ******
Talked through the silence
And called it fate
Which made sense until just now
When I said 'us' out loud
Held 'we' in my hands
And made what we were out of clay
Fired it in the kiln and had nothing come out
Which all makes sense, now
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 9:25 PM UTC
On occasion,
I have been driven to acts of extreme nonviolence
by those who have expected the opposite of me
There is nothing quite like
the sound
of a father's dismay
at his son
who refuses to strike him
despite his deepest wishes,
Or the relief in a girl's voice
after promising,
without her asking,
to never abuse her.
I think something is wrong with me.
For I am only violent in my music.
Is grunge what life is suppose to feel like?
Is that what my best friend hears
every day he shuffles past
loose bottles and snapped belts
to crawl into bed,
hoping to not distrub the presence
which gave him life?
A presence still snoring out the whimpers of his little brother?
Did my dad hear bass tabs
when he told his abused siblings that
"there ain't no way I'mma treat my children like he did us?"
I wonder,
does he still hear them?
Are howls and chords what the boys in bathroom stalls
playgrounds
hallways
classrooms
my bedroom
my porch
my basement
hear when they make me taste the ground?
Can the violence of soundwaves really be mistaken
for the passage of time?
Does life truly deserve a Grammy for
Best Harrowing Performance?
Is life really just one big mosh pit?
...
On occasion
I have been driven to acts of extreme forgiveness
by those who deserved only a little
All they had to do was ask
and that is what scared them
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC
In this small town you'll visit many places, see new faces and learn how to get all kinds of ****** up
You'll visit these basements and lofts
You'll make lots of friends
You'll create a lot of enemies
For we're all teenagers
Throwing our twenties at the stars
Checking each other's wrists
Comparing the number of stars to scars
At one point or another you'll give in
At one point you'll do everything your mother prayed about and swore you'd never do
Next thing you know you'll be 3 lines deep and sitting on a strangers lap
Four months later you won't be strangers anymore
Four months later ******* is just a new normal in your life
A year later you'll be kicked out of your parents house
A year later you'll be screaming and crying and listening to every sad song that's ever been written and compare it to you
These are all the things you'll experience
As we wave hello and scream "Welcome to Bridge-City baby"
Because we are the survivors
With many problems and too many lovers
We are the kids who stay up all night and mosh to metal music till we collapse
For we are the kids they call sad and hopeless
Yet we're full of love and full of drugs
Yet there's never a dull moment and there's always someone laughing
We'll give you a new place to call home
We'll make you or break you
Welcome to Bridge-City baby
Buildings built of drugs and loud music
Home
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Smile
Even if you don't mean it
Fake it like your o face
Make it like you're going out of style
I don't know why I keep going after the broken ones.
Maybe there's a piece they're missing
like I could be the peace of mind musing
her fragile little soul.
Maybe I just want to fix something.
The perfectionist architect,
The anti-hero archetype
Letting my emotions build castles
instead of locking me in some dungeon ruminating.
Or maybe I'm the ******* broken one
Dead set on divinity
Dormant in between rock bottom and a dark place
I'm ok, I swear to a god complex
Praying for some princess clad in punk rock armory.
Tearing through the motions
in the mosh pit of reality.
All for her crown of fire and flowers,
Come on, save me,
*The light of my life
Fire of my *****
Lusting into supernovas
To encompass this astral plane
Where we're waging a war against reality
With the fantasy I'm wanting to pull out
a 4th wall broken
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
One. Two. Close your eyes. Renew.
Three. Four. Release your thoughts. Explore.
Five. Six. Express. Fix.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Repeat. Refine.
Ten. Breathe in. Let's begin.
"What's the matter, Logan?" Jessica asked.
I paused to reflect upon the moment when my hand reached over my heart. I was helplessly pointing towards my chest to express the chaotic feeling inside. "What are these feelings?" I pondered.
"What? What is it? Chest pain?" she asked.
I shook my head with my hand tapping against my heart. "How do I tell her that I feel irregular heartbeats? How do I tell her that I am feeling something completely indescribable?" I thought. I rubbed my stomach in rotating motions.
"Logan, is it your stomach? Do you have a stomach ache?" she asked. The deep look of concern in her eyes heightened the feelings inside. I reached over to my phone and texted her a brief summary of how I felt.
"Logan, seriously?" she asked after reading the message. She leaned over moving closer to my lips. "A mosh pit of butterflies," she whispered. I could feel the warmth of her breath against my cold lips. "Well, I am ready to rave if you're willing to ...," she said before she was interrupted.
I closed my eyes and leaned in closer. "One size fits all," I thought to myself. When two souls fill the large vacancy between each other's arms, there is nothing to do other than embracing that invaluable time together.
The butterflies subsided.
Ten. Breathe in. Reflect.
Nine. Eight. Seven. Euphoric heaven.
Six. Five. Rejuvenate. Revive.
Four. Three. Proofread. Agree.
Two. One. Close your eyes. Have fun.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
I've been so old, locked in line by expectations
I forgot that love is a $20 ticket to a punk rock show
Sweaty bodies pushing forward, slamming hard,
falling to fall in love with the words of some yelping, grown-out teenager
And we're all drinking ****** venue beer just because it's dirt cheap
and suddenly I remember that I'm only free with ***** feet
and I come alive in mosh pits and I die when I live for paycheques
We're all dripping beads of sweat, making necklaces from our youth
Tokens of everything we love and shedding everything we hate
We'll sweat it out onto the ***** bar floor
We'll keep going until our legs give out, I swear to it
I've never been more free than when I'm dancing to these songs
I've been so old, forgetting that I'm just a punk rock kid, with $20 in my pocket and ****** beer in my hand
Singing songs that mean something, demand change, ooze with emotion, celebrate divine & dingy moments, make me feel that transgender dysphoria blues
I forgot that this is euphoria
I'm not jaded quite yet
Not in this moment
How dare I be
How dare I?
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Funk
Jam Wam goes my Trunk
Punk kids rage and unleash the beast of the party out the cage
Hippie kidz just melt
felt there heat
you see there bodies fall to the ground
the Rock kids mosh and make the concert burn down like pete tosh
We were funky hipsterz watchin the motion of the devotion of these kidz gettin down
we were funky monkeys just swinggin and a singing
pretty girlz jewelry gleamin
ya they caught me peakin
**** I was geekin and cheezin
would'nt you
Funkin A
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 8:27 AM UTC
The flavor of my youth
was skateboards and punk rock
heavy metal and mischief
walking through Cary town
with pockets full of change
and crushed singles
sodas in hand
and skateboards under the other arm
in the gated community we lived in
we would find the houses
where we knew the owners were away on vacation
and we took to the stairs on four wheels
to glide through the air like arrows shot from some towering bow
made of concrete and asphalt
and we went to shows in the city
dressed in the armor of wristbands, ripped jeans, and faded band shirts
drunk on our parents’ beer and skunk ****
drunk on the promise of a night open to any footfall we chose
and we jumped up and down in mosh pits
just trying to feel anything real
anything which tasted like living
we stalked from house to house cloaked in the witching hour
and pillaged our knick knacks from the garages of neighbors we never knew
padded fingertips pressing against doorbells
1...2...3…
now run
we didn’t have time for school
or the teachers trying to bring us down
but we always had time to trek through the woods with a bowl
smoking **** until we got to the mall
where we ******* around until mall security chased us out
we did not always make the greatest decisions
but I am **** glad I made them
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
T he memories always play back to haunt me.
R ummaging through a stack of vinyl records at Amoeba.
A nxiety finds its favorite record to play, speed up my heart rate... start the mosh pit.
U nderneath that pit, a prisoner sits.
M ay there come a day when freedom wins.
A nd until that day comes let the record play.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 2:41 AM UTC
**** the typical things. MYSTICAL became a new trend.
The lost horse gallops to the anthem the dynamics in them.
Sick like cancer's son but more Sirius I wrote this poem in 2 minutes
the falcon rests on my shoulder after stretching, eating your owls while you sleep
**** and MC !
Reduce your horns and fangs to ivory all eyes on me 2 pac is alive I'm known as
the liar who tells the truth learn my roots.
You know my name, these artist emulating the fame, I'm like the grain,
rebirth from the blood stain having *** in blood rain
The mosh pit- became my wasp nest,
creating odd trends I gave ya the substance again!
As your waiting for time to change
the sage creates his own time frame I sell this to lames they read it a bit, then claim they know the WHOLE talk of it!
I thought I told you when you don't ASK questions you're ******* ****
Progress your silence as arrogance THESE
ARE THE REALMS OF MY WEAK TALENT...
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC