A milk truck pulled up and
tipped off its boys, draining them
into the gutter. Inside,
their screech of vocals lent
horrendousness in off-notes
to a heft of metal
panelbeating out of that one place
the neighbours always shunned . . .
Creme de la garcons; testosterone they
splurged as party nourishment
spread out into girls'
egos. Everyone sculled Unreason
by the litre. When the hardcore thrash
hit the C.D. deck, the rage
whipped to a curdle.