#warhol
The leash as a box full of the wrong tools on purpose.
Elegiac prosaic synesthetic turbulence.
A hamburger that DIDN'T resemble Winston Churchill.
Mental imagery sacred or beloved
A rainbow. Painted waterfall. A watermelon. 13 lbs of Cheez **** squeezed from its cans.
We don't try and teach beauty.
The old country.
And the country's even older than that.
Beautiful monkeys. Sleek and grooming. Made of pure crack *******
Flamingos for the yard..
Hippopotamus toothbrush. Calling. Discarded calling cards. Losing lottery scratchers. Litter.
Waste deep
. Waiting.
Drifting deleterious and delicious.
Flocculent enamored nullibiety Deliquesces
Erroneous flamboyance to a Turnbuckle cadence.
There you were an ostrich with no eyelashes .
loved
love and loving,
Lunchbox desire .
No hunger.
Why look too hard or try to understand ? ; when the price tag isn't an explanation.
There's no such thing as nothing from nothing.
Redundancy,
rhythm or repetition ?
The question, the box, the lie. And the bigger box that it came in.
Mouths in entirety , down.
Exotic plastic
desperation...
pre-school connections given up,
Up.
Lottery dreams pre-lost, organically kind and loser efficient if you don't think about it.
Waste-deep the hippie , our shared sweet spot. Any lower and you all drown. Any higher and you must explain yourself.
“Deleterious and delicious” superimposed as intellectual. thesis . Poison frosting ****** Medicine wrapped sugar - death static. discarded Miles Davis accolades unwarranted ,
heaps of Warhols used appropriately as diarrhea toilet paper and nothing was lost.
or gained as they Jackson Pollacked our way back into inane superficial supposition ...
Spoon fed greatness inseparable from talentless wank ,
SOLD !
True talent feels Greek tragedy heroic in the most ineffable way
among
obstacles that just don't care.
Given Pro- wrestling bell rhythms for lobotomy lullabies. Thud, pause, blood, applause. loosed from their earthly bounds as ****** drenched folding chairs.
That eyelashless ostrich hurts more than it shows. Slick wet Naked-eye so black. Unnatural and vulnerable.
Inappropriate feminine attributions.
Love and loving stacked like mismatched discolored Tupperware
Soiled and abused
so many times enjoyed
.
Languid lunchbox libido
pre packaged useless desire .
Want without hunger. Fuel for lost consumers
bath- robed and slippers ; bleary eyed and dead inside...
It ends almost perfectly for a living wiggly waving inflatable air tube clown.
when something comes from nothing.
The mirror not hungry is not empty.
Jan 25
Jan 25, 2026 at 1:40 AM UTC
of a repeat image he did employ
which was akin to an advertisement
this being the artist's own singular ploy
did he do it for some little amusement
in galleries these very works can be seen
where they will feature an alike object
as if the viewer needed a copy screen
to understand the picture's subject
a dozen or more on the white background
they displayed a famous maker's name
who did blend the tasty liquid's abound
that was captured in a pop artist's frame
on this night I've written about the man
known far and wide for depicting a can
May 7, 2020
May 7, 2020 at 7:48 AM UTC
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.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 6:09 PM UTC
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.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
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.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC