Gedicht
John Kinsella
Warhol at Wheatlands
Warhol at Wheatlands
Warhol at Wheatlands
He’s polite looking over the polaroidssaying gee & fantastic, though always
standing close to the warm glow
of the Wonderheat as the flames
lick the self-cleansing glass.
It’s winter down here & the sudden
change has left him wanting. Fog
creeps up from the gullies & toupées
the thinly pastured soil. It doesn’t
remind him of America at all. But there’s
a show on television about New York so
we stare silently, maybe he’s asleep
behind his dark glasses? Wish Tom
& Nicole were here. He likes the laser
prints of Venice cluttering the hallway,
the sun a luminous patch trying
to break through the dank cotton air
& the security film on the windows.
Deadlocks & hardened glass make him feel
comfortable, though being locked inside
with Winchester rifles has him tinfoiling
his bedroom – he asks one of us but we’re
getting ready for seeding & can’t spare a moment.
Ring-necked parrots sit in the fruit trees
& he asks if they’re famous. But he
doesn’t talk much (really). Asked about Marilyn
he shuffles uncomfortably – outside, in the
spaces between parrots & fruit trees
the stubble rots & the day fails
to sparkle.
© 2003, John Kinsella
From: Peripheral Light: Selected and New Poems
Publisher: Fremantles Centre Arts Press, Fremantles
From: Peripheral Light: Selected and New Poems
Publisher: Fremantles Centre Arts Press, Fremantles
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Warhol at Wheatlands
He’s polite looking over the polaroidssaying gee & fantastic, though always
standing close to the warm glow
of the Wonderheat as the flames
lick the self-cleansing glass.
It’s winter down here & the sudden
change has left him wanting. Fog
creeps up from the gullies & toupées
the thinly pastured soil. It doesn’t
remind him of America at all. But there’s
a show on television about New York so
we stare silently, maybe he’s asleep
behind his dark glasses? Wish Tom
& Nicole were here. He likes the laser
prints of Venice cluttering the hallway,
the sun a luminous patch trying
to break through the dank cotton air
& the security film on the windows.
Deadlocks & hardened glass make him feel
comfortable, though being locked inside
with Winchester rifles has him tinfoiling
his bedroom – he asks one of us but we’re
getting ready for seeding & can’t spare a moment.
Ring-necked parrots sit in the fruit trees
& he asks if they’re famous. But he
doesn’t talk much (really). Asked about Marilyn
he shuffles uncomfortably – outside, in the
spaces between parrots & fruit trees
the stubble rots & the day fails
to sparkle.
From: Peripheral Light: Selected and New Poems
Warhol at Wheatlands
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