07 Aug Stephanie Barber
andy was disgusted with joseph’s
use of felt and wax and just the whole viscosity of
his poetry. his whole haptic thing.
but he loved joseph’s fat face.
it’s hard when you love a someone with whose
something you are displeased.
andy went to expensive hotel coffee shops
where glass walls looked onto
the boats of the wealthy.
joseph lived on a boat in andy’s sweet apartment.
he brought home delicate blossoms.
they wilted and he moved his torso with joy.
do you button up?
do you stop soon?
do you have the winter ask itself over
and over again if it is alright
as you rub up against
its snowy morn?
andy was so conflicted
about joseph, his want of joseph, his boating
ANDY ASK AGAIN, ASK AGAIN AND PUSH
how much they laid on the
listening to albums. andy’s body immobile.
the day we asked the lord to return to us our suffering’s
his white fur winded on the still carpet.
outside the window a chorus of poets
looked in on these two.
man and dog.
both white with hair and their ears full with the music.
one still and one waving. wandering through the plied patterns.
how much andy and the day we asked the lord to return to us our suffering
wrote letters to their doctors deep into the night.
letters about the music they loved.
they went, generally, like:
“oh dear i can barely understand the way this one makes
am i sick?
am i alive with how much this hurts?”
the doctors, like the moonlit poets, are calm.
bemused behind glass.
handy with assumptions.
none of andy’s friends could believe the amount of time he spent.
like money, he was rich.
he gave it away and he lost it or forgot about it.
he left it on buses and he
let it slide,
down his bare leg from the hole in his pocket.
oh how andy warhol loved the feel
of time sliding down his bare leg
beneath his pants
right in front of
all his friends and those he had not yet met.
ANDY WARHOL’S MOTHER
mornings he wondered when and how
the quartet he sang doo-wop with could dedicate
its harmonies to the endless maternal lighting grid
beneath which the grass did
Stephanie Barber is an American writer and artist. She has created a poetic, conceptual and philosophical body of work in a variety of media. Her videos are concerned with the content, musicality and experiential qualities of language and her language is concerned with the emotional impact of moments and ideas. Each ferries viewers through philosophical inquiry with the unexpected oars of empathy, play, story and humour.