Ava Morgan
FROM THE BOTTOM OF THE MOSH PIT
First time? Flat headache.
The knuckle-drive of
my jaw ached for weeks from the
the ear-piercing wasn’t a hole punch but
a stretcher
slow-armed, extending.
Fuzz Box?
Spicy. She sneezes. I’ll admit it: sweet-gauged.
This fist-rapped cable cord. This wrist.
How chole-lapped I here? One spin
I was
was
black-stout dripping-shirt
Watch it man
whirl-wing on the adrenaline crunch
I re-watched LOTR this morning and tried out some new braids,
tried to molt into a mountain king.
Watch it, man
What-see?
dodged bottom-of-his-boot
god, this sloppy three-moon wolf shirt.
She set the tongs in bile, passed on a
I could hear the feathers bursting from my veins
liquid spirals in the grunt-nosed vulture cry
Goth bitch with the green-eyed snake-bite
How?
Never had a bandaid the dance couldn’t taste.
Never had a viking axe to replace
the gaze
Up-ing,
Up
to a beer-bellied stage
to a hillside circling with flames
rage, rage, fist-high pedal-duct, Say
n-o-o-ooooooowwww
but here—when did my my become so pale?