But the Factory? They all pretended
to be limo rich, starlet junkies preaching
about Chelsea love and money. Acid
was LSD, Eliot’s peach, rotting,
lay in the sand and crabs was a disease.
Tonight the fucking world has forgotten
the phone next door rings off the hook. The sleaze
of this city knocks on my door —- like sin,
flesh will always be nu-vogue. Take my smut
pour yourself a glass —- Pop Art’s sticky glue
needs to be sucked, re-blown —- O, you virgin,
it’s cute the way you worship Warhol —- but,
darling, anything I can break with two
hands can hardly be called a religion.