Ride a groove like its iambic, the stress of limbs 
crossed and uncrossed, in time doubled over, 
hunched while ankles, wrists twist anapest
breath gasped, sweat slides in pentameter
ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da
the ba ch ch ba ch ch of a dactylic pocket 
we slipped our hands into alongside the bass 
line bubbling and the guitar fizzle through 
amplifier fuzzing. Then the spondee crush 
of climax tat tat tat on the high hat smashed 
in a final spray that knocks us off our feet 
and drops the beat so deep we’ll never 
wash it out.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.