Like a Punk Rock By Tim G. Young ​

Last evening blasted through his head like punk rock. It was punk rock, like a rock smashed to bits, blanketed with razor-sharp edges. His hands willing to scrape the edge across the inside of his bared thigh. He would collect the blood in a saucepan while it ran from his flesh like rats escaping a fire in a hole. He would study the color, feel the texture, and probably taste his own blood. But his fingers began to bleed before he could bring the punk rock to his leg. He had to drop it as if it had been pulled from a pottery kiln. The heat reminded him of the cinnamon candy hearts he would throw at his sister after he had sucked on them. He thought the memory of the taste of the cinnamon red hots might resemble the taste of his blood. His fingers continued to bleed and began to pulse in rhythm along with his heart. His heart was booming like a huge kick drum drenched in reverb.

In the beating confusion, he convinced himself his vessel was being drained of every drop of crimson, turning his sheets a stinging red. The red had embedded itself under his fingernails and dripped down his fingers across his chest.

He sat up, moved his hands to his mouth. His tongue emerged, sliding all over his red, encrusted fingers. The taste was anything but cinnamon. It was the taste of another tongue.

The sound of a storm pulled him out of bed in time to see lightning flash and rain pound his window. The punk rock rested on his pillow. The clock on the wall had stopped ticking. The second hand hiccupped at 4.


The numeral 4 sent his memory to a scene from a dark bar. He and his friend Gabriel were drinking shots of red-headed sluts. Gabriel bought the sluts and later tequila, and convinced the bartender to turn it up. The Cramps danced with a shotgun-wielding bikini. The Clash was so very bored with the USA. So was everybody else, but no one was moving except for the bending of the elbow. The bartender walked by to shake hands, depositing a bag of blow into his palm. He laughed and grabbed an anonymous drink from the bar and finished it. He walked to the dim end of the bar where the steps led to the toilets. Gabriel followed. The coke flew up their noses and ran down their throats.


London calling, five lively girls crowded into the bar. The bartender bought them beers. They did a drunken cheer, throwing back their beers, kicking off their shoes. The tallest girl looked at him. He took her hand and led her to the toilet. He slid the latch on the door, gave her a blast, and another for himself. Back at the bar, she gave him her beer and ordered more. All the girls ordered more beer.

The bartender came out and made out with a girl in a very short, shiny green dress. Her hair was dyed red. Gabriel said she could have easily been the original red-headed slut. The bartender ran with this, telling the girl in the short, shiny green dress, who almost fell over from laughter. Her red hair brought blood into his mind. It’s blood that made her hair red.

He looked down at his shoes. They looked like they were on strange feet that never belonged to him. He thought of blue suede shoes, red-haired women, and his wish that all five girls would strip off everything, climb on top of the bar, and spread their legs. He wanted to see the hair at the top of their thighs. The tall girl put her hand on his chin and slid her tongue into his mouth. He smelled her teasing perfume. He pushed his tongue into her. The Sex Pistols played No Future. The lights flickered. The bartender locked the door. It was after four when the party hit full stride. More shots and brews were poured. A pile of cash grew on the bar. Everyone lit a cigarette and a joint. The tall girl moved away, asking Gabriel to help her up on the bar. She stripped off her sweater, revealing her breasts in a very tiny black and red bra. She lip-synced to the long, tall woman in a black dress. At the end, she did a split. Everyone was happy until the beginning light of another day began its creep into the din of disrepute. The bartender signaled that the party had ended.

On the outside, he remembered the bartender’s face looking distorted through the glass as he locked the door. It was a cloudy, cool morning. He heard distant thunder when they all fell into the street. The girls and Gabriel vanished into a yellow cab. The ad on top of the cab was for Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club.

Lighting a cigarette almost burned off his eyebrows because the flame was adjusted too high. He grasped the lighter in his right hand like a pitcher about to throw a fastball. It crashed hard in the gutter across the street, curling into a ball, throwing up its last gasp of flame. He walked over to see. It was like a punk rock. It was something very sharp and dangerous.

Tim is a widely published author, poet, and songwriter with BMI. In other times, in New York City,

Tim was an actor and frontman for his numerous rock bands. His new novel, A TASTE OF HEAVEN,

is being shopped to agents.