Felt Free

Gentle and creeping in suspended time, Iggy Pop's "Nightclubbing" rolls down the fire escape, bouncing lightly over the rusted grates and feeding into the alley below. Far above the cherried cigarette butts, escort flyers, and urban grime, there is something untouchable. She passes through the moment in a dream of lush green forest, foliage brushing a glistening trail, a hint of a memory, against her face. One of those warm, muggy nights that gets you wet all over without noticeable rain. Miles above, he slowly begins to bop to the beat, as trills of ecstasy wash up over him, engulfing. How could one small pill...

She rises, rides it higher and higher. Every note pushes her to the sky, every chord rips her heart wider, every moment creates nostalgia before it's done. Ladytron, corazon, anthems for seventeen, light your cigarette, put that condom on. An art school girl, lusted protegee who hides low self-esteem behind arrogant half-smiles, a bottle of whiskey, a self-inflicted Johnny Hobo tattoo.

Please don't tell me you OD'd again. I don't want to come home and find you on the living room floor, stretched out in a bunny suit beside the remains of white powder. Please don't make us have this conversation again, please don't tell me not to dial 9-1-1.

Cutting in and out of consciousness, this club, getting lost in the swirl of music, the tingle of cartoon stars whirling around my body, moments like these I'm a superstar. Nights like these I'll never come down, never come home, never have to see you on the floor again.

She pours wine down her throat as if ravaged by a vampire, flowing into her cleavage and snaking around that supple flesh. Wobble-whomp bass vibrates through the indoor fog, the red-soaked lace on her corset quivers. With jet black curls and lipstick like Bettie Page, a mini dress built for burlesque and fishnets mean fun, she spins slow circles drawing attention. Drunk on her beauty, so many women and men, she's playing with fire. Pulling them in.

Across the dance floor an aging teen mom dances beneath disco-ball rays. Natural orange curls flow under a top hat, mane framing freckles with no make-up. Plain white tanktop, saggy tits, this woman ain't no pretender. She's a rare kind of beauty in this scene; she's something others don't want to see. They aim to forget the outside, lie down and hope the world passes with quiet. They close their eyes to sustain this high. The lines in her skin expose a different story, early crow's feet up here, angry stretch marks down there, a weary truth in her eyes where once she felt free.