“It doesn’t matter what the critics think, keep making more art.” — Andy Warhol
The bon vivant
making naked remembrance
of a background shooting,
film and history intermixed
with oceans of grief
in an eerie replay of his childhood.
“The scars look pretty in a funny way,” he explained.
Note how the narrative rises to meet
horror and reality in a crazy mixed media scheme
involving blood and fantasies, dream and tissue,
as if God had given a second chance.
Yet what does it all mean, this porous existence
expressed in a tired vision of decay?
And so it was, we reeled with the aftershocks
of the Sixties
as he skidded through his Factory
up to his sleeves in sleaze.
Amid the portraits and lavish commissions
he buried himself in fortunes
and an expanding influence pressing outward
in all directions.
Indifferent portraits of Mao, Jackie, Marilyn,
the ubiquitous soup cans, electric chairs
diffused with surreal intensity.
Portraits in a wired weird washout of wicked wildness,
inundated with ample iconography to create a sense
of mad genius pervading all.
A Charles Dickens of the pop art scene, immense,
immersed, devoured, ever pouring out the work,
ever provocative, forever progressing, energetic,
splashing the world with tacky wonder.