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Lydia Hounat

13 Nov Lydia Hounat

i will never be satisfied

 

i have hugged the moon to tears.
i have eaten whole pizzas, worn white cotton socks
watched films about fast cars and ketamine.

kicked my 20 year old body to the toilet seat.
dragged two fingers down my throat
to throw up all the memory.

i have swallowed jasmine
rubbed mint between my fingers outside flats in brixton
baby, i have chopped courgettes
and i have beaten the sun to death with the spanner in my father’s toolbox.

i want to unpick the grin of your silent word.
why do you not want me?
why do you not need me?
waste goes to worsen

i have been sexting a 40 year old outside london bridge
as the rain slurped its way down my fingers.

sometimes i will light a candle in churches.
sometimes i will get rejected from a zine.
or stuff my face with cake.
or starve myself for days.
you have to know; i do not know.

baby, i will never be satisfied
i would love to kill you with my ride.
what say you to loving me without ease?
just tell me you’re using me.

i do not recognise the violence in your tongue.
i float just so i can drown.
i want another ecstasy pill.
i want to know the red clump of cells bobbing in the toilet bowl
turned to mush,
i would like to make it my ingrowth, meet it.

baby,
i had your life in me.

tell me that you never wanted me.
call me cum-bucket, a 3 am clumsy fuck in my fur coat.
wrap your lips around me like i were your cigarette.

and i will never be satisfied,
i know that look in your eyes,
what do you genuinely want me to feel?

i have been hanging over the toilet seat like honeysuckle.
i have been sitting in bedford square watching dogs fuck.

a rich man bought me strawberry soda.
he invited me to poetry cafe.
he wanted to take me from behind outside the thames,

sure.
sometimes boys glide inside my gallery
and all the paintings of you are smudged.

sometimes i will forget you.
sometimes i will stab you out cold.
or hope to sit on a balcony in valencia peeling oranges with you.
or maybe sweat with you.
baby, i will never be satisfied,
just tell me you’re only using me,
you have to know; i do not know,

i’m throwing you up all over this bathroom.

 

 

problematic

 

 

a frustration, I whip my hummus The negatives
drying on a piece of washing line I tied across
my bedroom Your photo cavalier kid who thinks
he’s already famous soaked Self-adoration
another play on words Another Facebook comment
another untagged photo your London smirk
mutates ugly in my breaths Daisies stink and your
top is stupid Overrated and a cigarette burn on my leg
you think it might be me; Problematic; Unconcerned
the aching truth lining my gums Speaks this: how
on Earth might I possibly love you? This photo
of your smoking pussy drying back to Crinkled-flesh
would sooner not develop in god’s Palms. I whip
my Lunch back to liquid luxury and I have Red pepper
in my teeth and so I have You in my wake and in my
Aftertaste, south side fear; merely a frustration.

 

 


 

Lydia Hounat is a British-Algerian poet from Manchester, England. She has been published with Vanilla Sex Magazine, Hobart, HOAX Magazine, as well as other publications. A photographer and performance poet also, she has had her photos published in Peach Magazine, and showcased her work at the Manchester Literature Festival. She is also a poetry editor for REALITY BEACH magazine. You can find more of her work here at her website, www.lydiahounat.co.uk ?

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