by Nick Gisburne
His pictures do not paint a thousand words
I find that only one suffices: shit
The garbage in this gallery of turds
Is travesty, on which I long to spit
No comical cascade of clever speech
Convinces me that this is good, or great
A tortured talent, far beyond my reach
Or splashes any drunkard could create?
He wins, because of course, he was the first
And all who follow throw their paint in vain
Bear witness to the critics, all coerced
To feed the lies they bury in your brain
I see no skill, no excellence, no art
Illusions, to be scorned and pulled apart
