Likes to write things: words, melodies, bass lines. Born and raised in LA. Would like to be a cloud.
IG: @mal.vidrez or @girlfridaytm
Thy Crank Generation
Isa hates religion but
worships Richard Hell. Biting, as ever,
at the sex leash on her neck
listening to the
her slack-mouthed effigy.
He doesn’t smile like a good god should.
She wants to be unbearably shocking!
She is unbearable
to herself except
gold-seam trousers in the Jesus-candlelight
of painted Hells, Verlaines, and a misplaced Rotten
on the mantle, hum drumming and pitter patting along, feeling profound in the eyes of her simulacrum.
I hate contradictions
in the dark. To me this
is as arid as a cross. ascension
by exclusion, saved by knowing.
Tell me why.
Isn’t it daring to
be so boxed? I am
not brave enough to
withstand the servitude.
to love someone.
A maker, a hand-sewn
crown, a darkly bitter
Sistine Chapel Ceiling.
She wants to be found
the eye of the limit.
I don’t want to be found
Exultations to Dee Dee Ramone!
Praise to Mick Jagger’s 69’ Hyde Park Performance and
his equally tasteful poet’s shirt.
She prays to him. Wants to be him.
I want to fuck him,
and leave him.
Blessed be the choir boys and their powdered wigs,
their fledgling eyebrows and latex suits
painted like the insignificance of King David
A gruff Hendricksxx says again
“I ain’t exactly a graven image, now that you mention it.”
Damn him. Damn them all.
She moved to New York. Walked
the walk. Changed her name to Iggy. Spit
radicalisms like new. Washed in the blood of
on magazine quotes like dogs, copycat killed, and drew
on clothes like a little sister who didn’t have
nearly enough cash.
At seventeen, I heard Carl Boberg’s 1885 hymn
How Great Thou Art and howled like nobody’s business. Bent like
hell over the catechisms. Cut up and
hungry for washed blood.
On my knees
at the gate waiting
for God to come home.
Burnt up for being wrong.
I don’t want to be a prophet, or for that matter,
or spatial at all.
Maybe I could be tectonic
in the sense of crumbling, or
A ruler to get you out of bed.
A song to keep you out of
your head. Make the world
the promise of your parent’s gods.
I’m not going to piss
the bed again. I leave
her in New York. From
what I’ve heard, She
still sings Chinese Rocks
and talks about how her
dad knows a thing or two
about record players and the