Ride (Instrumental) – All music rights reserved by Lana Del Rey

My home is a graveyard in the heart of

the suburbs and we are buried in between the numbered houses

and the perfectly cut grass-sheets. It is so domestic, these picket fenced streets feel as if they are closing in on me, and I am

trapped because there is nothing domestic about me. I’ve prayed

to God, begging to stay young, free, and unaware. But the Lord’s prayer is beautiful and unfair and my cries were denied. Still, we survive by

getting high, can you blame us if we were raised with this

state of mind? We were never told it was wrong. We sing songs and

dance until dawn, we are suburban and we only play along because

we like to get noisy. We are chaotic, crazed, and flighty. Reckless, raving,

and unruly. We are suffocating and we are driven by the insane. The freeway

has become our getaway, an escape for all the runaways, a mirage of light

and sound and colour. My bones are raw and weak but the freeway speaks

to me: you are alive, you are alive. But still, I understand that, one day

we will all be dead and I will die lost, sloppy, and dirty if I am

buried, but shall I burn, my ashes should scatter all over

the city – I will be free to hate and

free to love.

Can you say the same about yourself? We came from suburbia and

all we want is euphoria, we just want

to be fucking


I can barely recognize myself,

I’m trash, baby.


Who would you rather be, Pablo

or the Pope? Escobar has all the fun, but the Pope

lives in Vatican City with Michelangelo, Leonardo, and Raphael and

travels around Rome, Venice, and Florence. He was baptized

in the Basilica and sings hymns in the Sixteenth Chapel. But still,

I can’t seem to see or find the God he serves as he lives in

his heaven on earth. I have searched day and night and

although the Pope has taught me to pray for my sins, my spine

has found too many knives gorged into itself, I can

no longer make out the shape anymore. My body is crippled

and disfigured, these prayers have stitched the cracks in my skin

but my regret still finds itself

trapped underneath.

Where is He? Oh Escobar,

I have searched day

and night,

where is the God he serves?


The Pope has given me prayer, but Escobar

has taught me that prayer

is only an illusion.

“Between you and me, we are already

free. While the Pope waits for the Messiah,

my dope will elevate and levitate tired men

to give them hope.”


I think I’d rather be

Pablo. The Pope can serve

in heaven and I will

reign in hell.



He is more backwards than the ocean’s wash and he’s made up of more fault lines than California. He moves the ground beneath my feet and although I am shaking from the grinding of our tectonic plates against one another, he does not frighten me. Our aftershock tends to send others running, and I love it.

He tells the sun to beat down on my skin and the salt of his water to leave me dry. Nevertheless, I have decided to settle somewhere along his coast. Still, he keeps shifting.

Please stay, it’s incredibly hot and your shade keeps me cool.

Sleeping with dogs

There is another woman in your bed and I imagine she is me. Although, she hardly looks like me. Does not sound or feel like me. Does not scream, sleep, or smoke like me. Her wrists and ankles tied to yours are softer. Her legs and thighs spread for you are warmer. Her tongue talks in twists and it just tastes sweeter.

You told me that you prefer her because she does not scatter like I do. She is not separate, sensitized, and severed. She has never asked you to pull out. She cums as your hips slide into hers because,

unlike me,

she does not have to share.

3am conversations at the bar

Very briefly, I was with this guy. And, I still think of him, but I’ll never say nothing.

I was afraid to look at him. Oh boy, he seemed like a very sneaky, stealthy, sly fox in a big-city. And I realized we would never be together.

But, l would think about him.

Forever, probably.

I find God can be cruel that way. I believe that He watches over me and I know in my heart he is everywhere. He is the white lines, miles between, the solitude, desolation and fear. He respects my lust for freedom, how I can live in my best memories of him and never find a true way to escape it.

He said I was the sweetest,

I thought he was the coolest.

Oh boy, it was a funny game on repeat he liked to play. He was just one of those people. I mean, I barely knew him, but God,

I still fucking miss him.

Fortune tellers

Life can be so lonely sometimes. as a kid I watched

my mother tie up her hair in pin curls and clips and I remember

how stunning I thought she looked despite the lines

on her thick skin that marked a false,



She tells me I look just like her, and I am both full of 

relief and regret. I’m still not sure how we have created

a cyclical generation of our own heartache, but I am so high and

I have never felt more 


“If you can be slow

and easy, 

I think you can make it.”

plan b

fuck, it’s so warm.

the sweat, anger, and shame

of your hands around my wrist

and the fire between my thighs

you like that?


pull the trigger,

shoot me in the fucking head.


i can burn this motherfucker.