Behind the psychedelic wig,
the burlesque pose and the calm attitude,
behind your desire for the world to change
by your electrical sentences,
by your inexplicable behavior
a storm roared:
Exiled to Earth
you could not find meaning to this so common life,
nor find peace in your everyday,
nor even in the vain pleasures that you showed,
nor in the vague experience of fame.
Sad like a child,
for the lack of love,
trying to hide in plastic your pain
no sedative could make disappear
your almost painted violet tears.
And in that suffer you found
the necessary light
to change your habitat
that of the common consumer citizen
and trade it for that Technicolor heaven,
which acted as a narcotic in your mind.
You then got drunk
with the flashing lights
that blinked
in Hollywood’s sky
and you became sick,
sick with a social disease.
From intellectuals to Bohemian street people
everybody was welcome in your Factory;
your home, your place of peace
where anybody could attain
“15 minutes of fame”.
Your unbelievable talent
will always be remembered
In a way or another, you've made a difference,
you've change the world.
"Warhol Self-portrait"
