The tornado of sweating souls slowly catches their collective breath,

but only for the briefest of polite respites, for the pulse

is gaining speed and the heart rate quickens in time

with the drum stick, the judge’s gavel, taking issue

with the ones at the side of the pit, ready to hit-out

but too scared to throw themselves into the whirlwind.

The Mosh, once in, never released, never to be forgotten,

never to disclose that what happens in the sweating bounce

stays in the sweating, feverish, testosterone fuelled dance.