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symbol of contemporary life
packaged, preserved,
instructions on the side.

simplicity of modern day,
pop stamped symmetrical;
hunter gatherer.

collect them into rows
italian chopped tomatoes
best before date, barcode.

tin can still bites,
like bramble thorns,
to repel against harvest.

boxed up comfortable living
adding edge to expectancy
countering convenience.
April 2018  (draft scribbles in 2015)
Vera Mar 2018
Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue

When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.

I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of ******* women
and dialogue of broken hearts.

Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.

they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.

I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.

I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.

They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.

Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You

So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?

—V.H.
A dream I had of speaking with Andy Warhol
jdotingham May 2017
the birth of a hipster (in denial),
so pose for the camera (and cover that smile),
                    silhouettes are as edgy as a circle can be,
                    3-D induced make belief.
so deny all you want; the fashion speaks/
it's a lifestyle when youA hipster/28|7\12-days-a-week.&
        
hit me up before the trend, no positivi-tea, just a cynical-coffee-blend. DRIPster that drink, make sure to blink and for crying out loud: do it whatever [that is] quietly over that god.****.kitchen.sink!
     but edgy as a circle (you are)
     _but
         _but
             _BUT!
you *aint no
warhol superstar.
jdotingham Apr 2017
filter tips [between your] finger tips,
          lean right in for
a cigarette kiss
          &
i'll brush your hair right off your eyes,
*touch.your.neck
           &
carress.your.thighs.
extract from my Epic poem Andy + Co.
jdotingham Jan 2017
they wait,
                 rock n roll music plays,
                                                      john­ny b goode runs through their veins,
                 distorted views fuel their brain,
they wait,
!for the walk on the wild side.!
they create,
                   dancing oh so late,
                                                      inspi­ration runs through their veins,
                   in hazy hotel rooms they say, what wisdom days,
they create,
!for that walk on the wild side!
they rebel,
                  with that distinct smell,
                                                          ­  of ***** and cigarettes,
                  god knows what else,
they rebel,
!for that walk on the wild side!
he leaves,
                  his "bad influence friends",
                                                       ­    no pretense runs through his veins,
                  no shorter way to live your day,
he leaves,
for that walk on the wild side.
then bang!
a silver-haired burger eating contemporary [silent interview speaking] bold colour choice (and creative flair) boy is gone.
[the starman had written a song]
                                                           ­    the silver haired boy had gone
                              !to the place in the wild sky.!
but not for long...
                                     james dean was there and looked down on him and said "hey man, your 15 minutes aint over for the ride
!you gotta walk on that wild side!"
then that other guy, reminisces on his days, in the place
with the group that plays
and creates
and taint
4art.*
&
_
.
d.d. #36 - you know whom you are my friend.
Chris Neilson Oct 2016
Every Hello Poetry submission
has it's 15 minutes of fame
Andy Warhol would've approved
he was right all the same

On the front page
for a quarter of an hour in the sun
views and shares and followers
determine when it's done

Some are only half baked
like this you're reading now
short on plentiful mangelwurzel
like an underfed Jersey cow

Many do stick around though
like a stick insect on a sticky stick
growing into a magnificent mansion
brick by brick by brick
*mangelwurzel - a type of beet used in cattle food (but, of course, I know you knew that)
SassyJ Apr 2016
Hello my alleged old friend
In caved streets I walk alone
In paved paths I hold in ease
An exile with an orthodox esse

All scripted in Hebrew tongues
Written in the tunneled lounges
Priested in elixir like scrounges
Translating  this Torah in ounces

Duplicated in Andy Warhol visuals
Capitalized cultural art expressions
Controversial and radical conscripts
Recruits of a revolutionary adversary

Escape to the streetlights with a view
A lake with a praise that use and muse
Misuse art, get torn, spirit flow in prints
Encompassed in the beauty of tainted hills
For Ezra Warhol : Hello My friend
http://hellopoetry.com/atlasmarker/
Vamika Sinha Aug 2015
Sun slits in through slats
of kitchen window blinds
and she is alone.

The art major is cooking
spaghetti,
pretending her thrifted T-shirt
bearing a cotton copy
of Campbell's Soup Cans
is not stained with tears and blood.
Oh, but that's hysterics and
hyperbole;
art has a tendency of making its worshippers
melodramatic...no?
The blood is only tomato sauce
and the tears...
well, what are tears but
water and salt?
After all, dramatizing the
mundane is just one awkward shade
of artistic temperament.
Visualizing life through
a heavy silk screen.

The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is redder and
redder as she cooks.
Just as
her paintings bleed more blood
as she dangles a brush over them -
the teary-eyed watercolours.

The art major has decided
that drawing out extremities
of colour
might transform
her own life into
a pop of a Warhol painting.

The art major sighs and
stirs.

She thinks, tries to
think
in technicolour.
Today's thought-pencilled thesis
concludes (like a brush stroke of uncertain finality) that
love is the red of tomato soup cans.
Anger is the boil, passion is
the gulp,
danger, caution, warning,
the hot breaths, fleeting warmths,
the burn and sweet and tang.
She looks down at the
scarlet of
Warhol's soup cans,
blooming in worn out cotton
on her chest.

It might as well be blood, she
thinks.
It is,
it is,
it is.
Blood red love -
tomato soup cans.

Sun sets in slits
through kitchen window blinds
and she is still alone.

The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is ready.
I once saw a T-shirt of Campbell's Soup Cans in Forever 21. I didn't buy it.
Also, Andy Warhol is endlessly amazing.

— The End —