sweaty mass, a sweaty mess of it
hair sticking to foreheads
and girls with perfect posture dipping
their spines
receiving the–
music pulsations and time, means nothing here
where everyone is infinitely young and everything is
luminescent with the voltage of our movements
we're all so under the influence of
one another and
alcohol breath and cigarette kisses taste too much
like cancer, really
but we collide like it's the essence to-
wake up our minds,
and they do force open eventually
when we've forgotten the exhilaration of primacy for
more pragmatic means of existence
with feet stuck to the ground like Conifer roots

but at the root's root,
didn't we feel beautiful together
at our ugliest?
while meshing tongues to forge chains
and strengthen the rebellion?

we keep it simple, anyway.

tomorrow morning when we pass each other by
we pretend not to remember any
names.