I’m a sad girl,
I’m a sad girl,
I’m a sa-a-a-ad girl.
Lana Del Rey is the poster girl for sad girls,
pout pasted up in fashionable alleyways everywhere
like wallpaper, like echos, like lyrics,
all sultriness and repetition,
enough to make Andy Warhol sweat
in Tāmaki’s wet heat.
Look too long and you’ll get spots in your eyes,
mistake her for the male gaze,
heteronormativity incarnate,
Jessica Rabbit languid like a Dali clock
draped over the bonnet of an American cliche.
But sometimes earnestness
is irony, is beauty,
is sober sluts singing
all i wanna do is get high on the beach
in a 1997 Demio
on the motorway to Manakau.
Otessa Moshfegh made it cool
to have a psychotropic pharmacy
in your bum bag,
and we all feel less bad
about staring tearfully out windows
if we pretend Sofia Coppola is filming it.
But Lana is the OG
Madonna on high to sad queers everywhere,
a moment of peace in an ultraviolent world.
Lana is a Sad Girl,
a sad girl,
a sa-a-a-ad girl,
and she makes us so,
so
goddamn
happy.
