seaside hallelujiah


in his last year the artist kneels in the La Jolla sand to howl 

a few last curses at God or Art or the moonlit fowl.

wrapped in ratty ermine from ’89 & a Party City crown 

he knows his card’s up, the kingdom’s coming down.

teenage protege by his side’s

got shaky knees, just along for the ride

you’re cannon fodder, sweetheart he says like always. 

yeah whatever she says like always

gets quiet inside, fills her belly on stolen wine-


just their usual Saturday night soliloquies 

elevated to sublime theatre 

by the Pacific mirror 

& proximity to the edge-


the king’s become the jester,

he lays out the jewels to test her.

would you take it all kid? would you take it tonight?

try it kid, this is your eternal life


mocking her girl-art & talking noise,

she's watercoloring Bettie Page’s stockings

while he barbeques nopalitas for the lost boys,

acting like Death’s not at the door knocking-


from the vantage point of Warhol’s Heir

he’s watching her Edie out

with fake hair,

ridiculous sandals

& an array of scandals

they don’t get it Michael

we’re gonna be alright.

i think we’re gonna be alright.


midnight echoes, darkness closes in

the party crown dims & his scepter flickers

shades of violet & crimson

king of his own cosmos, star of his own picture.


you’re cannon fodder, sweetheart

cannon fodder...

and you can quote me on that.

th_Eroses is a contemporary art website dedicated to film photography, cinema, poetry, internet performance, behavioral choreography, and art critical theory.