Andy Warhol's Party Book by Andy Warhol
 I can't help it. I suck the white lights of NYC. I twirl his hair into
wires. I make faces in the mirror like an art star, stare at the spread
at night, in my dressing gown, "I hate it" in this fake voice, and
softly, A. Warhol goes on and off in the distance. City of faces. City
of black holes and white walls. These pages of pearls and irredescent
alters: oh andy of plumes and cookies, of stiff hair, pleasant smells,
the crowd cheers 'get up' like it is in the light.
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