I killed someone at Physical Graffiti. I slept with Heartbreaker. I go to bed on the last mattress of a 500-floor bunk bed and by the time I get there, the others get up and the one on the floor yells at me that I have to go to school. Everyone gets to luck faster than me and that's because everyone takes elevators and I get the fire escape. My life is like a derailed train that doesn't want to get on track. I'm afraid of falling asleep for fear of dreaming she's with another guy. A wedding cake moron who can make her happier than me. The music is mine. The poems are mine. And no one else's.I go from bar to bar drinking everything they put in front of me. No matter how cold, how hot, or how red it is, I send it in. I'm going home alone. Always. Alone and drunk. I slide into Kashmir. The streetlamp lights won't light me up while I'm sliding into Kashmir. Slow and fast. Slow and fast. Slow and fast. The end begins every noon and all that follows is endless nonsense. Like a game of chess without kings. I want to be in the dressing room with Page and fuck his groupies, but he looks me in the eye and sends me away. Mine was always the same: a parking meter where no one ever wanted to put a coin. When music and poetry burn, the road to the 500th mattress begins. A one-way street. One-way only. Nothing different than the brown sugar path that settled in my veins forever. Suddenly I see her dancing in a musical box with a polka-dot dress that is a continuation of her skin. Or her skin. I don't know about that. After a night with her and Zeppelin there was nothing more worthwhile.
YOU ARE READING
I.C.U
General Fiction"Debbie Harry and Kurt Cobain; Luca Prodan; a city that burns; a freckled girl who leaves; a war on a mysterious island and a cursed writer are the flashes that run through the mind of a teenager who suffered a motorcycle accident."
