Free Burn Down The Night by Craig Kee Strete Page B

trying to spy heaven with two legs, the
older version of it.
    "She's so hot for
you that she's already in the bedroom. She's got her clothes off, just waiting for you to come
and get her. She told me, 'Eddy Pusswrecks' (that's my name), 'you go over and tell that handsome
stud I'm in here waiting for him and I'm hot to trot.'
    His eyes are wide
open, mouth dropped down to his navel, and he's sweating like the Boston Marathon.
    "Waiting for me?
Jeeeeessuuuuuuuuus!"
    We get him up to
the bedroom door. Morrison opens the door. Beer Brain looks into the darkened room, can't see
anything at all. There's a moaning sound coming from inside, sounds like a buzz saw in
heat.
    "Go in and get one
for God," says Morrison, slapping him on the back.
    Our boy is in his
own forest fire. Panting, eyes glazed with amplified lust, fingers jumping around at the ends of
his quivering hands. Hovering in the doorway, pulsing with high energy of low degree.
    Morrison gives him
a push. Our boy staggers into the room and we slam the door shut behind him.
    We listen at the
door.
    "Hooooooorny!"
Sounds like an elk whispering the "Star-Spangled Banner."
    "I'm coming,
baby!" That's our boy. Sound of clothes being ripped off, shoes coming off and thump­ing against
the floor. Patter of feet as he runs toward the bed.
    Thump, squeak of
protesting bed springs, a squeal of delight. Then sounds too frightening to think
about.
    A mountain making
a molehill.
    Morrison looks at
me victoriously. He licks the tip of one finger and makes an invisible number one in the air on
an invisible tally sheet.
    "That's one," says
Morrison, with that wicked laugh of his. "Only forty more to go."
     

Well the dark was
big
    Where your cars
went through
    What you
thought
    You thought you
knew
    And there was a
clock
    Attached to
birds
    That explained you
and me
    Without any
words.
     
Jim Morrison and Craig Strete

CHAPTER 5
    "Don't step on no
snakes," Morrison says and then disappears into the wreckage of the party. Me, I wander around
dazed, bouncing off people, walls, things like that.
    I'm all banged up
on the outside like a human fender bender. I feel like the loser in a demolition derby. Some
brown-haired girl with sympathetic eyes leads me into a bathroom and washes my neck.
    I just barely
understand what she is doing. She leans me up against the sink and I stare blankly at a sign over
the toilet that says "Vietnam Is Only 3000 Miles Away. Is It Safe to Cross the
Street?"
    She rummages
around in the medicine cabinet, then goes through the drawers under the sink. She comes up with a
tin of bandages. Then I remember cutting my neck, falling down on a wicker chair somewhere, seems
ages ago, and can't remember where. In any case, I'm still bleeding.
    "You've had a
rough time," she says, tearing the wrapper off a bandage. "Let me slap this on your neck and
maybe it'll stop bleeding."
    I start kissing
her, both of us leaning crazily against the sink. Nice-looking girl and stoned stoned stoned.
She's laughing as I grapple with her, still trying to get the bandage on my neck. She's
ticklish.
    I get my hands
down inside her pants and she jumps. The bandage gets crumpled and sticks to itself.
    She giggles
hysterically and drops the bandage.
    "Beast," she says
but doesn't seem to mind.
    I'm fingering her
and her hands are shaking as she gets out another bandage. Her back arches and she leans against
my hand. Clumsily I make my hand that's still free attempt to unbutton her tight blue
jeans.
    The bathroom door
bursts open and a drunken Mexi­can staggers in. Says something in garbled Tex-Mex Spanish,
unbuckles his belt and drops his pants. He isn't wearing any underwear.
    "Hey!" cries the
girl, startled, and moves closer against me for protection. My feeble brain can't quite grab the
scenario. I just stare at him stupidly. He weaves toward us, pants at his ankles, chattering away
in garbled Spanish. Neither of us understands what