I can't help it. I suck the white teets 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. ( )