:: Article

Three Poems

By Lydia Lunch.

Casita Blanca

Of course I long to be
The laziest bitch in the whorehouse…
Legs spread wide, head turned to one side
Lucky Strike dangling from my
Cock stained scarlet lips
Eyes on the alarm clock
Whose somnambulant throb
Reminds me with every passing pulsation
That my heartbeat has slowed to a death march
Whose funereal procession will be
A century long samba
Littered with the beautiful corpses
Of hundreds of dead soldiers
Who had come to soil my battlefield
With their heavy artillery
Pumping into me like bullets
Fired at point blank range
Anointed with the hot molten lead
Which would mingle with the blood and cum
Eyes heavy with morphine, cocaine, MDMA or madness
Mind swill drunk on the uncountable contaminants
Whose steady diet I have feasted on for decades
As a tribute to my own survival of the sickest

FIND THE BODY

I saw him first… in the post office
His face a blurry scan on a yellowed piece of paper
His black eyes burning
He was smirking, defiant

It said ‘WANTED FOR-’
I can’t remember what he was wanted for
But it didn’t matter because I wanted HIM
Before I even KNEW it was HIM I wanted

IT WAS LIKE GETTING LOST IN A FILM LOOP
A LOCK GROOVE, AN OLD LATE NIGHT, BLACK AND WHITE
FILM NOIR LIKE NIGHTMARE ALLEY, THE NAKED CITY,
GUN CRAZY, DOUBLE INDEMNITY – THE FUGITIVE KIND

HE WAS AN IDEAL REFLECTION OF WHO HE THOUGHT I WAS
MIRRORED IN THE DROWNING POOLS OF MY OWN EYES

BEAUTIFUL EYES WHICH LIE BEAUTIFULLY
BEAUTIFUL EYES WHICH LIE

AS I DRAINED THEM OF EVERYTHING
EXCEPT HEAT AND DESIRE

HE WAS LIKE A HUNGRY ORPHAN
SEEKING RELIEF IN MY CRUEL SMILE
MY LIPS WERE TWISTING AROUND A MAN
WHO HE THOUGHT WAS HIM
BUT WAS MERELY A PROJECTION OF ME
MY NEED MY GREED MY LONLINESS

I remember… when … I remember when he was re-inventing himself again and again picking up the derelict pieces of shattered dreams making peace with the empty promises and endless threats

Before his violence and malevolence were a magnetic firestorm
A spontaneous combustion of blood lust and mistrust
Like a punch drunk bruiser shadow boxing in the dark
Punching shadows and raping ghosts

Hell bent on murdering that invisible enemy
That killer inside of him that wanted inside of me
Who just wanted out because it was never enough
It was never enough until it was too much

And the blood in my head became the blood on my hands
And my hands were around his neck and his neck was broken
In 3 different places

And there comes a point
When nothing seems to make sense
Not any more
Not when you’re beyond reason
And whatever it once was it no longer is
And we no longer are and he is gone
And every word has been leeched of meaning
And the more I think I know
The less I seem to comprehend
And he never knew me, didn’t know me
Couldn’t know me, I wouldn’t let him

Because the killer inside of me
Has a mind of her own and has watched one too many
Late night black and white films like
NIGHTMARE ALLEY, TOUCH OF EVIL, GUN CRAZY, DOUBLE INDEMNITY, THE FUGITIVE KIND – VENGENANCE IS MINE

And I too will succumb to a mysterious disappearance
A dead weight free fall, a forced amnesia
AND THEY WILL NEVER FIND HIS BODY

Ghosts of Spain

This is for the ghosts
This is for the ghosts of Guernica, Belchite, Badajoz, El Mazuco,
Monte Pelato, Mataro

This is for the dead and dying

This is for the war torn and battle fatigued

For the widows and orphans of warriors
This is for the warriors
This is for the warriors who were willing to die for their beliefs
Who were willing to die because they believed
It is better to die
Fighting for freedom
Than to live a life enslaved by lies

This is for those who believe
This is for those who believe
And you better believe
You better believe in ghosts
Because soon enough you too will become a ghost

This is for the ghosts of Fallujah, Anbar Provence, Abu Ghraib, Baquba, Guantanamo, Gaza, Beirut, Bagdad, Kabul, Kandahar, Jalalabad, Islamabad, Katmandu, Mogadishu, Darfur, Sierra Leone

This is for the freedom fighters, the insurgents, the rebels and rabble-rousers and for every individual who revolts against tyranny and oppression

This is for the martyrs- Mohammed Mossadeq, Salvador Allende, Oscar Romero, Theo Van Gogh, Federico Garcia Lorca, Pasolini, Bruno Schulz, Madalyn Murray O’Hair

This is for the wounded and traumatized, for the survivors, for those suffering post traumatic stress syndrome, for those that choose to survive, and strive to overcome the roadblocks and landmines, the pitfalls and setbacks, the negativity of a world which forces you to fight tooth and nail, forces you into battle mode on a daily basis just so you can maintain a tenuous grip on your own sanity, after a lifetime of the enemy’s torture, humiliation and brain washing.

This is for the ghosts of Brooklyn, the Bronx, Detroit, Watts, Inglewood, Oakland, St Louis, New Orleans, Memphis, Trenton, Youngstown, Cleveland, Camden, Baltimore, Newark, Little Rock, Tulsa, Baton Rouge.

This is for the ghosts who feel invisible in life, trapped in a warzone of poverty, desperation and neglect, born in a country which glamorizes violence, worships serial killers, threatens by massacre and arrogantly brags about gangbanging the world

This is for the lovers of forgetfulness
Who turn a blind eye to all those
Who have been murdered fighting someone else’s battles

This is for your ghost
This is for your ghost

This is for my ghost

ll
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lydia Lunch is an art terrorist who has been confronting apathy and kicking its fucking teeth in for the past three decades.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, May 29th, 2011.