A miracle
when I opened
the bags of chips:
they cracked
barbecue remorse
in my metallic mouth.

I ate them with repulse
as the skinny bitch
across from me sang
some idiotic pop song.

I thought if I could make
her eat her own stupid hair
she'd come to realize
it's hard being fucking pop
and it's easy to have
a cool hair.

So I skipped my stop,
went to the MoMa instead,
pretended Andy Warhol's
Exhibition was still on.

I commented with Andy
about this guy's photography,
some Boris Mikhailov, probably
very pop because he's
from Ukraine and man,
nobody's more pop than
those people who come
from nothing and feel

Right? So I ditched Andy,
because he was a fake pop,
he spent too much time
with his hair and he knew
nothing about pop,
this is why he was crowned
the father of Pop Art.
It's always like this.

But Boris, Boris understood
pop to the core... What it
really meant to be pop.

So I went home and listened
to Manson
and designed a seamless
just to be pop.



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