Lana Del Rey’s lyrics are so like Charles Bukowski’s poems. Both sexist, full of unpleasantness and glamorisation of promiscuity, drugs, smoking, drink driving… But so richly indulgent of glorious and bitter Americana, the “dark side of the American dream”.
As you know, this girl has long fought (unsuccessfully) an unhealthy obsession with the ‘beauty in decay’. Lana and Bukowski both feed that dreadfully but I’m afraid I just can’t resist.
I’ll sum it up with Anton Chekhov, king of misery. Yes his writing, but one supposed quote of his seems to reflect this thought perfectly, even though I possibly interpret it differently from other people.
“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
This ‘quote’ is very probably just cobbled together from things Chekhov did actually say, but his point was this: you don’t need to say ‘The moon was shining’. You can express that with glints and shadows.
But I think it also means: don’t settle for niceties. Give me something raw and twisted and broken any day. That’s what makes the story human.
You can be my full time daddy
I’m an angel looking to get fucked hard
She says you don’t wanna be like me / looking for fun / getting high for free
If I get a little prettier / can I be your baby?
I’m your National Anthem / God, you’re so handsome / Take me to the Hamptons / Bugatti Veyron
All that grace / All that body / All that face / Makes me wanna party
My pussy tastes like Pepsi-Cola / My eyes are wide like cherry pies / I gots a taste for men who are older / It’s always been so it’s no surprise
I fall asleep in an American flag / I wear my diamonds on Skid Row / I pledge allegiance to my dad / For teaching me everything he knows
No one’s gonna take my soul away / I’m living like Jim Morrison
he has on blue jeans and tennis shoes / my god, boy, I fear for you on that night when you first find out
her long blazing hair / her almost perfect body
the ladies of summer will die like the rose / and the lie
on a windy afternoon in Hollywood / listening to symphony music from my little red radio / on the floor
I have lost my rhythm / I can’t sleep / I can’t eat / I have been robbed of my filth
I realize hell is only what we create, smoking these cigarettes, waiting here, wondering here
we glowed madly / it was grand and easy
as the nightingale sings elsewhere while / laughter mingles with the roach’s hiss
I knew you in the love bed as you whispered lies of passion while / your nails dug me into you