The lights, languid movements, bright city sky and roots of farm country life, the factory, used, radiant color, speed, black eye liner, bones, starlet-supreme-celebutante, an artist, years cut, infusing the master’s brilliant strokes with just a glimpse, a head cocked back, and a riveting wide open smile.  For Warhol and Dylan, the muse, an ill one-winged butterfly, a lost balloon sailing above far too soon.
A lost hermit crab looking for its shell.  Used and discarded like a bad hand of rummy.  The factory enforced her drug use.  It enforced addiction.  The needle poked.  Warhol called her a poor little rich girl, but all her money was going to his advertisement, his film, drugs, art, sin.  Dressing like each other, he called her the queen of the factory and she called herself Miss Warhol and they posed together on the streets of New York, the film glitterati, a new Marilyn Monroe.  She paid for his artistic progression and she ended up broke, an addict, a thread on the floor of the fashionable scene.  Dylan tried to lure her away, songs were written, the Chelsea Hotel steamed up with hot blooded creativity, it was a break away from the factory.  The needle poked.
Falling down, broken hearted girl, shattered glass, ash and char, burnt out, 63rd Street, candles caught fire.
Warhol filled her in after he’d spat her out.  He let her know her crush, a white feather, a streak of something different, Dylan had married a woman named Sara.
She disappeared from the underground scene, the spotlight, Warhol, the glitter and speed.  The films, underground, she never got paid.  Wrapped up cold girl, sprawled naked, lost reflection, a family of mental illness, addiction.  She didn’t really disappear from the speed.  The scene of the factory.  The enforced drugs.  The enforced dependence stayed long after Warhol spat her out, long after Dylan recorded the song Sara, which was for his wife, not Edie, not what she wanted.  Dirty girl, used needles, pricked bruises, motorcycle gangs, calling her “princess,” calling her for sex when she needed more drugs.  Selling grandma’s antiques for drugs.  Selling herself for drugs.  Selling out.  Selling songs for Dylan, a used up muse, inspiring “Like a Rolling Stone,” and “Just Like a Woman,” but where was her name?  Just Like Edie.  Why was she never named?  Her artwork.  Her sketches of horses and bodies and Andy probably never did see her work.  Selling film for Warhol, musing his iconic figure locked in time.  Time until October.  This time I’ll be sober.  Spending a trusty fortune, 80,000 dollars in just six months.  Try again, resuscitate, renew, revive.  Rehab.  Recovery.  Repeat.  Rehab.  Recovery.  Repeat.  Nothing.  Nothing matters.  Blank.  Empty.  A party, a short life line reflected in her hand.  A fortune teller’s magic, foreshadowed early death. Accident/Suicide.  Only a short October, sober.  A name, Edie, an etch in time, a wide, riveting smile, a head cocked back, a lost balloon, dead horses, a stone, bones.

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