Lydia Hounat — "The Succubus", 2015

Now and then she kisses my back, it’s 1973.
I love the knife-touch kiss she gives me. 
Slowly unveils me, peels back the duvet, 
And peels back the skin on my lips. 

Biting my snapped liquorice neck;
Chewing my nailbeds, 
She whispers warm, dark words from her hard, chilled jaw, 
And urine-tears fall from her corneas, holding me. 

Can you hear the walls hum with her breath? 
Inked with green blood, sewage in your veins, 
Red as a thorn, milky as mud. 
Eccentric eyes, wiry cherub-hair, she speaks. 

“John”. 
“John, wash your mouth out with my fervour”.
Voices in my limbs, the beams on the ceiling shake, 
And she spins on my pelvis like a vinyl player. 

She’s as old as Bible pages, younger than baby-breath. 
Sponging her body on me in dreams.
She picks up the pace, and crawls on the roof of my mouth. 
Chanting tri-tones in my eyeballs. 

Can you hear the walls hum with her breath? 
Inked with green blood, sewage in your veins, 
Red as a thorn, milky as mud. 
Eccentric eyes, wiry cherub-hair, she speaks.

“John, I’m going to break your arm off like a biscuit”, 
“Transfix me, can I brand you with my hot iron fingers?”
She brushes her hell-tongue over my beef-torso.
Shards of glass prickle my chest. 

Her eyes cross-stitch, stiller than a clear sky, 
But I feel her move in the air like forest breezes, 
Salt in my hair after visiting the sea, 
She lingers before crawling back to the Devil’s hole.

Can you hear the walls hum with her breath? 
Inked with green blood, sewage in your veins, she breathes, 
Red as a thorn, milky as mud. 
Eccentric eyes, wiry cherub-hair, she leaves.

-








Lydia Hounat — "Gore Street Car Park", 2015

My honey that never was.
Do you remember shivering at the pay station?
I do. And running past the justice centre.

High on each other's wack,
Tiptoeing the bridge like O2 molecules.
Remembering forever, the future,

Kissing like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
You wore a tailored car,
Made for awkward stiff sex, and long limbs.

Fearful that someday you'd stop my heart like a pocket watch.
The penny, the pound, Gore Street car park, fumbling with rusty change,
You are made of steam,

The stuff of dreams, as slight as a pin prick.
You breathe laughter, laugh breaths.
Spherical like a pineapple,

And you send phone calls to me like the way the wind knocks the air out of me.
Fizzling electricity down my stomach.
The stresses and wear and tear,

My organs have become scratched leather since finding you.
Sat in a car park where I can see our fates in gulps of air,
Between cold shudders, and bony fingers.

-

Published in HOAX issue 5
lydiahounat.co.uk







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