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,
& 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
and you can quote me on that.