Psycho-Babble Writing | for creative writing | Framed
This thread | Show all | Post follow-up | Start new thread | List of forums | Search | FAQ

poem ... Corner of Madison and Warhol

Posted by Atticus on September 17, 2004, at 20:04:49

Corner of Madison and Warhol, 1984

Spiky coronal flash of synthetic white hair,
Shivery silvery starburst of tresses
Standing at attention
Like electrified strands of unstrung
Piano wire,
Stills the restless staccato shimmy
Danced by my pale blue
Summer-sky eyes
As I wait for the blazing glare
Of a traffic-light St. Peter
To blink
From Hades red to Elysium green
And open the pearly gates
To the keyboard crosswalk
So I can dance a too-cool tune
In checkerboard slip-on Vans
To the far corner
Of Madison and 59th.

But the shimmering Tinkerbell flash
Of tinsel-toned dandelion fluff
Tickling irresistibly
At the edge
Of my fission vision
Draws my jazzed and dazzled gaze
To the left
Where I find
Andy Warhol
Looking back quizzically
With one black eyebrow arched
From less
Than two feet away.
And the slightest smile
Plays across lips
Set into a shiny alabaster face
As I realize
This human wisp as frail
As a flower stem,
This iconic and ironic champion
Of the sugar-coated, celebrity-bloated
Power of pop culture,
Draws warmth like a pale, pale moth
From the fluttering and guttering flame
Of being recognized.

And my lips slide open
With a predator’s speed
With feral need
With undisguised greed,
To let this surreal
Twilight Zone suspension
Of our pungently
Mundane dimension
Just float away, lost
Amid the city’s sooty
Exhaust-scented ethers.
With studied casualness,
I light a Marlboro red
To steady
Nerves now clanging
Like metal wind chimes,
Dangling from a sidewalk subway grate,
Ringing cacophonously
As they’re jangled
By the steamy hot gusts
Sent skyward by passing trains
With anesthetized traumatized bowdlerized
Fleshy sacks
Stuffed and sagging under the weight
Of their own ponderous thunderous anonymity.

“So,” I inquire,
My funky punky crown
Of so-sharp ebon spikes
Playing yang to the yin
Of his faux whiter-shade-of-pale quills,
“Just when
Are my 15 minutes
Coming up?”
And in a voice as soft and nonchalant
As a dove’s watery coo,
Yet still audible above
The flashy smash dash of
Pedestrians finally freed
From the curb’s detestable irresistible
He murmurs
In perfect droll fashionista trendinista deadpan,
“They already came
And went,
Last Tuesday,
While you were eating
A hotdog
That you bought
From a guy
On the sidewalk.”
He starts across the street,
Then adds over his right shoulder,
“Weren’t they great?”
And in a moment
He’s floating away
In the currents
Of the sidewalk’s sliding tides,
A bobbing albino sea urchin
Fluttering amid the unknowns.

And I pull a long drag
On my quivering cig,
Spreading a Cheshire grin
Like a puddle of teeth
Across my features,
Pondering my daily lunch
Of street dog and Diet Coke,
All I can afford
In Midtown’s ten-dollar burger
Burgeoning bourgeoisie banquet.
But it’s all good,
All of Warhol’s Factory and
Studio 54-honed snarky malarkey,
Because now that I think of it,
That hotdog vendor
Seem pretty fu**ing impressed
When I reached
Into my tatterdemalion leather motorcycle jacket,
And with a pauper’s flourish,
Gave him
Exact change.
-- Atticus




Post a new follow-up

Your message only Include above post

Notify the administrators

They will then review this post with the posting guidelines in mind.

To contact them about something other than this post, please use this form instead.


Start a new thread

Google www
Search options and examples
[amazon] for

This thread | Show all | Post follow-up | Start new thread | FAQ
Psycho-Babble Writing | Framed

poster:Atticus thread:392135