Piss Artist

A room of knowns and unknowns, of sound,
Talk, chat, music, a covering of quiet desperation.
People alone and people together.
Empty chairs, empty table, chairs filled and tables attended.

Occasional braying, humour it seems,
Bursts like sputum from a writhing epileptic.
This is my haven. My home from home.
I hang my hat here and hang myself from ropes of make-believe,

Painting fleeting images of fun, sketched with liquid,
I create worlds and inhabit them as though real.
My make-believe reality, a bent, distorted truth,
Provides succour for a bone-dry soul, self-made.

As the paint never dries, the picture always changes.
I make them, fellow painters add or take away from them
Blurring any semblance of normality in dull, cold froth.
Never mind, never mind, another pint of clarity arrives. Cheers.

The show goes on, the braying intensifies, I’m fine, getting finer.
Then, somehow, I’m drowning loudly as my fellow painters watch and wave.
My pictures drip, unable to find purchase on this glassy surface.
More paint will solve it, strengthen the grip that’s starting to slip.

Later, in fog, the pictures are gone. Tables, chairs, people. Gone.
I ache from all the painting, body and brain burned by effort.
The paint is poisonous, I fear. Best not use it again. Good idea.
I wait for the fog to clear, the ache to slowly dissolve. Bad paint.

Soon enough though, fixed, I return to the canvas and set out my easel.
Time to paint again, it’s a skill I’m blessed with, like all painters.
The tables are here, the chairs, chat, music, all freshly minted.
Just need the paint, just the paint. Just. Ah, here it is - cheers!