andy warhol
marcel duchamp
and damien hirst
are sitting around the brim of my coffee mug
andy, fright wigged, is irreverent
whilst eating a bowl of oodles of noodles
debating tossing the other two into the brew just to watch them drown in his ennui
marcel is thinking he needs to piss
as he shaves a star into his hairline, dangling his feet into the warm fluid, all art to him becomes about his urethra
damien, la enfant terribles, is sizing up the other two gods, knowing he is unworthy of sharing this watering hole with them if only he owned their cadavers
his hands would slice them
into his shows between plexiglass
and finally
he would be a real artist
i drink from this cup knowing well
the world has gone mad