To the Max

by Stephanie Barber

andy warhol was like,
fuck it.

fuck it up the goddamned asshole. really.

it seemed clear to everyone at the save-right that he
had had enough.
he was fed up, he said "fed up to the max"

andy was hurt by the lack of appropriate response to his music.
he consistently wrote beautiful, careful minuets which implored
delicate fingers to bounce lightly off off off the keys
like children burned in the fires of hell.

he was forested in his need to be received.
he was just plain forested and this
brought tears and

the forest too is flowered.
the forest is green in the day and black in the night.
the forest is sounded and lustful
like your thick hand
on andy warhol's
thin neck.

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