A free portrait! Imagine that,
At no charge this troglodyte
Decided that I deserved a rendition in pulsing crimson, me!
He effortlessly sliced the curve of my face,
And then holding true to brute form,
Let his fists do the rest of the painting.
In a breath’s thought I fought the idea
That this strong browed man was a fan of
Yves klein, but then he caringly guided my sight
Floor-bound and I noticed that he was a
Monochromatic *******.
Now, I wasn’t expecting Monet,
But in truth the elegance of the lazy red river
Careening down my cheek and neck got my hopes up.
And then further was impressed by his liberalness
With bottomless black crimson
Where he’d only previously flirt with young pinot noir
As he took a break to wash and massage his stained hands
I clutched at the hope that perhaps he was done with the
Onslaught with such blunt tools,
As such methods could ruin the whole piece
Unfortunately, he returned
And his care for each swipe was becoming more
More impassioned, but less precise,
I asked if he perhaps needed a second break?
Perhaps I could assist him,
I wanted to give it a try myself, but my hands were
Tied.
In vain,
I tried to tell him that,
Perhaps,
His bearish skills and appearance,
Would be better suited to a life of leather, whips, and Oedipus Complexes,
But his response was,
Cutting.
You should never laugh at an artist
Especially the bad ones
Because then their work some how finds a way to get worse
I asked if he’d learned how to work from his father,
And whether his father had worked him in any
Other
Manner, and that’s when I became dizzy
I think.
Apparently struck a nerve.
