Libby Hsieh

   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
sweet
hallowed
    speaking of
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
    when sewing
                        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.         
She rushes
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
anywhere.
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,
love 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
Robert Jones!
A gruff Hendricksxx says again
and again


    “I ain’t exactly a graven image, now that you mention it.”


I’m incurable.
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
                The Damned.
        Chewed down
            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,
a person.
or spatial at all.


        Maybe I could be tectonic
        in the sense of crumbling, or
                                forming.
A ruler to get you out of bed.
A song to keep you out of
your head. Make the world
            bend to
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
Heartbreakers.