Thrash

Dripping, pinging
drops of sweat
so thick and warm and splashing,
as heavy rock pounds down the door
with speakers nearly
crashing
the dark garage is hot and damp
the drumsticks violent smashing
matches the movement
of the lead singer's hair
the girls think he's so dashing
but only music speaks to him
guitars and bass are
thrashing
while music pounds
inside his head
he doesn't care
who's in his bed
for all he knows,
they could be dead
haphazardly he's lashing,
irrational
instead.

-kb