Andy Warhol (born 1928, died 1987)

Warhol came with a lightning storm
and at every flash we saw each other
slightly older in the fluorescence.
Slightly dead.
Woke up the next morning, my arms
bent with glowing bright new skin.
 
It’s 1986 and we're alive and Warhol’s not dead.
When God pulls the star-sky over our land tonight,
Warhol will pull out the blue blades.
Hot pink. Electric chair.
Moonlight on white-blonde hair.
 
I want store shelves full of the gorgeous labels.
 
He didn’t say this. I did. There’s no need for art
when McDonalds signs shoot up taller than trees
along the highway, no need for poetry when we drink
something called Coca-Cola.
 
We buried him in sunglasses and a platinum wig.
Put a red rose in his hand, Estee Lauder over his casket.
Without the Pope, Pop couldn’t be trusted.
 
It's 1996 and we're alive and dogs deliver the mail.
Jesus scratches his head on a lawn chair in the moonlight.
The poets are playing football and they've got the rules wrong.
But look at them, Andy, look how happy they are.