My painting motion causes commotion:
no restful dauber; pigment explosion. . .
way too brightened; eyeballs frightened.
Ain’t no salon painter.

Perspective slaughter, hues sloshed like water,
brushes I borrow; painting/patron defrauder.
Stunts aplenty; content, empty.
Failed as salon painter.

Caulking gun: I spew and splat; paint thrown from a pail.
Boggles those with clear heads—“Thug!” is what they wail.

Some burnt umber, paint by numbers,
left-brain slumber, booze-filled tumbler:
freely drinking, hardly thinking,
elbow bending unrelenting.
Then some beering, head ain’t clearing,
synapse searing; slurping, cheering:
“Ale for salon failure!”

I turn a pee spray onto a “seascape,”
and what I’ve wrought are not trompe l’oeil waters.
Urinspired [sic], drenched and mired. . .
rained-on, stained-on “painting.”

When you’re seeing that I’m peeing,
you’re decreeing: “Stop wee-weeing!
Need a plumber?! What a bummer!
This is dumber than a Mummer
in a Hummer in the summer!”

You’re decrying my applying
yellow dyeing. . .canvas drying.

Ale-spawned trails on painting.
Ale-wrought. . .sale! Bought painting.