Self Portrait
by Andy Warhol (1966)
Is guilt my convenient conscience cleaner?
Like one of those acidic sprays off the shelf
No worries if a mess is made
I just draw out my handy friend
And wipe out my trail of stubborn stains?
It is, you seem to suggest, isn’t it?
You patient memoried surface of my spills and blows.
But it’s been far too long
And you’ve turned a
bitter hue
With all the rubbing and scrubbing.
And me, oh so exhausted from this ritual
that has turned
that wretched blue bottle into a synthetic fifth limb.
