*a poem by andy warhol

Just fucking get it

You are loved, ok

You are important, ok

You are seen, ok

You are real- you're no fucking velveteen rabbit or pork-pied Pinocchio 

You are here, ok

You are not there. That's ok

I know, I know

You think not being 'there' is not ok. Well, it is ok, ok?

You're here

On this cabbage patch now, ok

And if you stopped hating it, you'd see it was ok. 

No, not perfect.

No, not ideal.

No, not where 'they' are because 

It's where you are 

Breathe. Yeah, I know I know but shut-up and just

Breathe

Try again- do it

Breathe it all in

The gluey mess and the fish stink and the bad weather and the shit job and the dumb boss and the mortgage and the cat piss politics and whatever else -

Breathe it all in

See, it didn't kill you

Nah-

Nah-

Nah ha-

Don't go telling me you can't cope.

You just did

You inhaled it right into your guts and you did not choke. 

Now, breathe in the other stuff

That's harder, right?

Ok.

Look up. No, really- look up.

Right up. This is your reality. 

You're on the 59 bus, with your feet on the bannister and it's 11.42

Your wife loves you. That's mine. What's yours?

Look up 

This second.

This - this- 

this second will never ever ever ever fucking never happen again

You're you

No one can undo you, not really

You're you, you have a wife, you are a wife, you're terrified of wives, you want to be made into a knife then you'll kill wives

Whatever 

Bulllshit 

You are you

No one can undo you

You're a worker, you're a waif, waitress, wanker, wanderer, way 

way-way behind 

You are you.

No one can undo you 

They can't cut you down

Reshape remould or repair your big nose

They can't melt your soul or steal your dreams- your secret sexy weird stash- they are yours

No one can get you, not really 

They can ask for money, love, promises, punishment, platitude penances, peas -

They can't get you 

And you know what?

Mostly 'they' don't want to

They decayed centuries ago but you didn't notice. So busy mounting your own attack and defending the attacker. 

You're the attacker! In case that wasn't clear enough for you. You are busy hating and then trying to kill the hater. You could end the war today. Now! End it. 

No one can make you feel loved if you insist you are not. 

No one can make you feel cared for if you insist you are not.

No one can dry your eyes if you insist on crying in the dark.

No.

I don't care if you're the ugliest badest motherfucker going- you are loved. Maybe not by the person or people or pony you want to be loved by but-so fucking what? Really, so what? Why do they matter more than you? Why is their love more valuable than the entire fucking universe's?

Life is love

What?

Life is tangible love

What?

Love is being alive

What?

The fullest expression of love is being fully wildly beautifully alive in this moment and that moment until every moment of your life is ecstasy. 

Love is not sex. Sex is sex.

Love is not chocolate. Chocolate is chocolate. Love is not a puppy in a basket. A puppy in a basket is - what I will want when I forget this poem and think again that stuff will fill the hole  

Love is you

Every cell vibrating twisting splitting ongoingly repeatedly for no reason at all but 

For you.

Life loves you. 

wankerish arty wordiness 

Say it is untrue. If you dare. What's your sorry narrative for why you are here?

It has made you. Life, that is. Your parents were just the opportunity. Life was the decider.

And It gives two fucks for your insistence that you don't matter. It knows you do. It knows that that's why you're here. It cares not about your blanket tent, hiding in the kitchen floor. You are here. 

You are you. 

No lying. No more

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(*not exactly true)

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