memoirs of a painta

he stepped over the hedge trimmings
it was looking likely
he knew things weren't shaping up as he had hoped
a closure of kinds he supposed
recognition was surely only to come after his death
and with it would come fame, wealth and figa
not much use then...
what good to a corpse would all that be ?
oh sure
dress it up in big spiffing suits
extra posh make up on his bones
groupies digging him up and lewdly posing for photos on his carcass
loads and loads of big fuck off flowers by his headstone
whats the fucking point there hey?!
for now he was penniless and senseless
those blokes and women in trousers
the ones painting pale nobility
maybe in the 17th century it was all about your art
doing a da vinci and selling your behind for postcards
kissing arse of the pope and other rich nobs
just for another bowl of gruel
but he had no interest in posthumous glory
he wanted the wonga and the birds
pablo picasso never got called an arsehole (not in new york)
salvador dali was a shagmonster
gustav klimt had that thing with cats
miro had more shoes than imelda marcos
there must be a way to make the world sit up
and get the acclaim he deserved
he didn't really care about art
he marinated most art classes in high school
spent them smoking rolled up bits of canvas up the big oak tree
sometimes with a bit of paint remover to spice things up a bit
truth be known
he wanted to be a rock star
when nobody was around
which was most of the time
he put on his spangly leotards and played the air oboe in front of the mirror
and imagined a seething mosh pit before him
full of teeny girls...
crusty old blokes muttering respectfully in their cravattes
wanting to talk about the 'ists just didn't cut it
how to make art sexy again just as eduardo catflappo had before him?