Edie Sedgwick: A Cult of Exploding Plastic

Warhol invented you. Well, that's just tongue-in-cheek. Painted you silver but inside you were the color of sand. Glistening as you sifted through everyone's fingers. Your father had the biggest hands. He joked that sex was not for people with flat feet and acute memory. He named a dance The Nitrogen Fix and, for a time, you wanted to be a bubble. Childhood was spent being dream-warped in a big kitchen of utensils only. A photographer tricked you, snuck something in your drink, rode you as if he was his own comet. Is it a contradiction to say that upon awakening you felt like a zombie? Warhol was so pithy. At times, at times when he was so put-off, he couldn't remember your last name. Bobby wanted to rip off the curvature of your legs, put that lyric in a song. You flunked an audition for Norman Mailer because you were too hungry. At 3:00 a.m. you drifted naked down 5th Avenue, considered the universe as an expanding soup can. When it went Pop, you were stuck for answers. You groped in your sleep for the earrings you lost.