Contributor: David Macpherson

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Andy Warhol’s wig, displayed in a museum exhibit,
Looks like nothing but a tribble.
You know, from that old Star Trek Show,
Where Kirk and Spock and the other guys
Deal with a furball alien, that is cute and cuddly
But eats everything and multiplies quickly
Until the Enterprise is filled to the rafters
With the wigs of internationally recognized
Artists, I mean tribbles. I think.

The Andy Warhol wig is gray, an elder statesman to
All the new-born tribbles. Imparting wisdom.
Extolling the virtues of multiples and repetition.
For fifteen minutes, everyone will be furry, adorable
Existertestrial pests. You know. Business as usual.

Don’t feed the Andy Warhol wig, for it will reproduce.
In an instant, scores of Andy Warhol wigs
Will fill up the gallery like cockroaches.
Or screen-printed Brillo boxes.
And if the Andy Warhol wigs are fed a second time,
They will sport matching Andy Warhols
To go with the headgear. The galleries will teem
With Andy Warhols, speaking wan and disaffected.
Blocking all the art not by Andy Warhol.
Eating all the complimentary canapes.
Breathing all the air.
Soon, the entire art world will be crushed
Under the weight of countless Andy Warhols.
One Andy Warhol is cute and precious.
A million Andy Warhols is a terrifying proposition.
A pop art apocalypse.

We need museum placards that proclaim:
“Do not feed the relics of art history.”
We need to save the world from an
Invasion of Andy Warhols.
If it’s not too late already.


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