At sundown she crawls out of hiding from underground junk shops and thrift’s alike, emerging with chimney-swept eyes and matte cheeks only to swallow you whole. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Her eyes don’t blink unless when choosing her next meal. She is an enigma of a soul; I’m not quite sure if she is wholly human, but I don’t care. She is more scary than seductive, but to even try and weigh them would break your scale. She’s not on our level. And she’s Swedish — ashy blonde, cerebral friction, and a young rogue.
This bag lady is Lykki Li, except you wouldn’t mind being brushed by her shopping cart full of lust potions, elixirs, and skulls from her captives. Her songs justify her sanctity if you consider the reigns of some otherworldly heaven and hell dwelling remotely virtuous.
Versatile in delivery, her and the rest of them perform beneath low lights on top of Eighteenth Century Persian rugs in some cement garage, or — on days like this — braving daylight in a park in LA.
The assemblage of clanking and clicking comes from a combination of tambourine and thirty necklaces and bracelets she always needs to wear. And the whoo-ing; thank Bon Iver and his months of practice from crying in a cabin to get a falsetto like that. It’s obvious he shutters at her brilliance or the thought of one day getting her on all fours fucking her from behind. But it would never play out like that. He would be too into “making love” and she would be too lost somewhere in her own mind to think of men as lovers, when all she wants is a head to chew on and spit out when she leaves after midnight.
Maybe I play the fantasy out. Maybe she passes the time reading literature and sipping tea. Maybe she really isn’t as demonic as…ehh…nevermind.
This bitch is bat-shit insane, and I can’t wait to pick her brain someday.