The parking lot was mud and rain, Black shirts stretched across the plain. Someone grilled half-frozen meat, The smoke smelled strangely clean and sweet. The gates swung wide at half past ten, Security counted us twice again. A man with painted hollow eyes Sold bootleg shirts in perfect sizes. And everybody shouted: Raise your horns and bang your heads. Trade your voice for ringing threads. If the speakers start to scream, That just means they’re working clean. The first band played too loud, too flat, The drummer stared but never sweated. The singer thanked the crowd by name Though no one said where we had came from. The circle pit moved counterclockwise, Slow at first, then synchronized. A thousand boots in sticky ground Making one industrial sound. The lights turned red before the dark. The stage smoke lingered in the park. A girl beside me laughed too hard At something whispered through the amps. And all the crowd sang back: Raise your cups and swallow deep. No one here intends to leave. Stay for one more final set. You’ll remember to forget. At midnight, every band combined. Three guitarists played behind the time. The screens displayed the crowd from above, Except there were a few too much. The singer pointed to the sky. The speakers gave a choking cry. For one full second, every face Looked exactly the same age. Then the power cut to black. Nobody cheered. Nobody clapped. Just thousands standing in the rain Waiting for the next song to begin.
