Warhol’s Soup Kitschen

Paint, copy, print:
the secret formula makes it easy to create
for Campbell’s soup cans
and to cover the rust belt of your
the tepid broth
in each bland bowl
handed out with stale
Catholic wafers
so we may all partake in a kitschy
alongside mediocrity,
the trend set by you, a
so utterly cliche
that the trend is dead
before the sheep are
let out of the gate.
You were the first
Social Media Influencer
and have somehow stretched
15 minutes
to over 50 years
of fame.
You got a lot of mileage out of your
high heels,
but if they lack distinguishing depth
should they not be called
Yet, there is one thing for which
I am grateful to you:
you showed just how eager
those snobby, hobnobbing
knobgobbers really are in the
Artsy-Fartsy world
to guzzle down a generically
commodified can of
mass-manufactured soup
even though a gourmand’s stew of
was being served in every other direction.
Your soulless, assembly line soup
(modified with a dash of garish color
here and there)
was a taste of things to come
because the soup
you served in
fed everyone equally
except for the starving artists
you inspired into the jaded world.
For you were starved for nothing
in your life
except even a spoonful of
and it still somehow fed your legacy

Regarding T.S. Eliot

His work is as
skein and needle,
his muse a Frankenstein butcher
applying with a nib
the stitches whereby
a plagiarist’s poem is composed
with the tattered scraps of other works,
words stolen straight from the tongues
of antiquity’s ghosts
and constructed into a
his work is a mass grave
of decomposing
once beautiful and alive,
now a smorgasbord buffet
without choice, each leftover
shoveled down the intrepid throat
with a gravedigger’s workaday
Kitsch mish-mash and mush-minded
as wayward as a daughter running away from home
and as indulgent as the pimp letting a
hung jury of 12 men
sentence her to death by bukkake,
those 12 hollow men being
whose magi-moneyshot
attempts catharsis by
each in need of an exorcism
via oni-onanism,
ejaculating a pretentious
binding agent
for the quiltwork “masterpiece”,
the magnum opus
laundered from a sundered sundry of
less schizophrenic minds.
Nor am I merely
a rabid attack dog
shredding his pedantic homework apart
so he can stop showing it to the
misguided English professors
with whom he has engaged
in an unhealthy
brownnosing symbiosis.
How can anyone shred
what is, by its nature, piecemeal plagiarism?
It is like smashing sand.
He sought to concoct a
totemic golem
from a hundred other heads
and brought the misbegotten thing to life
by slipping his own renowned name
into its mouth.
Take one of his chimeric works
and unstitch the borrowed parts:
you will find,
at its naked core,
vacuous space.
“Shantih, shantih, shant…”
No! I shall not make peace
except over his anonymous grave.
Yet, how can I obliterate a tombstone
of hundreds of thousands of hearts?
The poems of this
have been inscribed voluntarily,
by hundreds of thousands of people
with a masochist pen.
And though his works are as idiotic as a
Jub-Jub bird
lost in the arid
they persist
like a meandering lovesong
sung by a deaf goat
fed to surfeit
on a library’s worth of books.
Yet, to me,
his poetry will never be
anything other than
a sprawling, fetid plate of tangled
with the shit left in.
So dig in,
April fools,
if it makes you feel smarter
with a mouth full of
to swallow it down with a smile
is nothing short of a