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June 24, 2016 | Poetry

4 Poems

Lydia Hounat

4 Poems photo

here he goes to drown

i am an island
        that sits
        kissing the cheek of the ocean.
             dirt mark on my shoulder?
            licking me?

we lie,
          i tell you i’m the one controlling,
you lift,
say you,
dig further into the sand.
                 you hope to leave, but,

i look at you through kaleidoscopes,
            except i never refuse
you always expect women to cry.

 

beach boys repeat

sun-peach, chewing on the sand - 
beach boys on repeat, 
we’ve been rubbing our lips
wishing i was somebody
or having to deal
finding a house
homeless/carrying wine glasses 
then sat on the coastline 
you find me golden
casually wrestling on the seafloor.

 

lana del rey suicide note

here she goes, hanging her lungs. 

            a selfie of boxed-up organs. 

somehow society’s like a lamb leg. 
                      she wants to vegan.
                            lose a few pounds.

fleetwood mac, because, y’know, 
                      70s bands are cool.

bleeding strawberry,
days spent looking at the rain,

the drugs didn’t wear off, 
the guy she wants to get in bed 
                                doesn’t really care. 

when she was 6 she’d never touch cigarettes, 
                                but drugs made her slip
now she’s not a liar,
and now she’s only sucking off.

                                 real as winter.
                                 nameless.  

dragging suede boots out of the cupboard 

3 am time, 
                     for more hurt.
english variation lana del rey. 

cracked like an egg, 
forgot to breathe. 

 

this is a nightclub in January

I

I am condensation on your tongue
gliding the sun’s face,
I could be a girlfriend
wiping the sea
like mandy crystals.

It’s a drug to be with.
      as good as blood. 


II

I want to fuck
tell me your mama issues
burn cigarettes on me.
                                  
This is a nightclub in January
           and here we, pretending to be something.

III


You’re all weather,
I was sold to your face.


IV

I copyright my skin. 
no tongue will trace a more beautiful language onto me
                                                                        than you 
typewriter-teeth 
I am yours to publish. 

 

image: Aaron Burch


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