He is from Mexico, and he is shaking his dreadlocks back and foward while he is infront of the mosh. his cigarette is still in his mouth. as he is pushed, the tabaco smoke comes out of his mouth making beautiful patterns.
A dude in a red jacket screams in the microphone.
I cannot help it: i join him.
He has a heart tattoo on his left wrist and he is always looking for his girlfriend.
he tells me to fuck off when i ask for a picture
but he still posses next to that sticker on the refrigerator that says something about domestic violence.
i say: thank you sir, you are a sweetheart!
I try to scape but then the smoke comes.
I first think is my cigarette doing the tricks on me, but soon i realize it's just the smoke machine.
making sweet smoke for us: the moshers.
it is a laundry room with a refrigerator.
but when the guitar player gets his face close to another dude's crotch: it becomes heaven.
bodies and screams colliding into a mass of cacophony.
cacophony made by the people.
some of they do, and they do it well.
She is in the middle of it all.
a little hot mess on the smokey-cigarette-butts-covered grounds.
When she hits the ground you gain complete understanding.
crash against each other, bond through pain, feel through pushes.
it is rock and roll baby and I feel it on my skin.