I can barely palate the painting
that's more like a palette than painting!

Such an eyesore I saw just the other day,
	and going for such a price!
If I could obtain just a fraction of that pay,
	it would certainly be very nice.

Who would guess that their art could sell,
	with the little soul it offers?
Yet many are misled into coughing up cash, to swell
	their already bulging coffers.

I must confess, it does depress me quite a bit -
	how certain lazy artists of the avant-garde,
		who couldn't care less,
	steal from those who toil long and hard
		yet are rewarded less.

The artist who, at great expense of time and effort, toils,
	they scoff at and spurn.
Then they laugh all the way to the bank with the spoils
	that they unjustly earn.

In order to mystify inquiring spectators into early submission,
	these, the art-world's rabble, babble metaphysical mumbo-jumbo.
They feed their gullible audience with a gruel of gammon
	who, without so much as a tongue-tip-test, lap it up and swallow.

I am amused to note the jumble of artistic terms they taint,
as they try to explain the scrimmages of images they paint.

They might, for instance, profess to express
	the conflicts at the seat of the subconscious deep.
But, as I muse over their mishmash mess,
	I could only conclude that they paint while they sleep.

Against the spirit of art, a war they wage
with the pretentious act of intellect they stage.

When confronted with a painting without form, the uninformed come out and say :
	"What fine hues they use!" or "What subtle colours they invent!"
Little do they know the range of hues, from which to choose, for sale today -
	that really little effort's spent.

When affronted by such offensive art, I come out in defence of art and say :
	"What fine hues they abuse, without purpose or intent!
How aimlessly directionless their discordant deluges stray -
	it's impossible to determine what, if anything, is meant!"

My innocent eyes incur an incursion of clashing colours, so horrent
	that my mind squirms,
and is subsequently flooded with a tumultuous torrent
	of utterly derogatory terms.
Commitment to the art of witting weaving, they loathe
and so, with an incondite cacophony of colours, their canvases they clothe.

With much malice, they commit callous acts of chromatic violence,
	sadistically squelching squealing tubes till their gore gushes.
The poor canvas, pleading for nimble kneading, they soon silence,
	smothering and suffocating it, till eventually it hushes.
Then they proceed with painful palette-knives to mix and mince.
	And, using them to poke and prod, they molest hapless paintbrushes.

Unsparingly, they spill and splatter
	without a clue as to their wastefulness.
Frantically, they fill the canvas ever-fatter,
	feeding their corpulent compositions with tastelessness.
Maniacally they mill their mull of mindless matter,
	building on their desperation, deep layers of meaninglessness.

Even though they furiously fill and fill,
still their style remains near to nil.

Amongst themselves they spar
	to see how much skill they can spare.
How heavy their paintings are!
	But their heads are as light as air.

With the mass of material just one of their works may hold,
I could most probably produce at least a hundred-fold!

"It hassssss.......er.......has...er..ATMOSPHERE!",
	an onlooker, at a loss for words, may declare.
But I must contend that the only atmosphere
	such works possess, is the surrounding air.
 
They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
But when it comes to art, it must first reside in the hands of the moulder.

How could fine art regress
to such fine mess?

If their art reflects their mental state,
then for them I think it surely is too late!

Never nurturing the orchards of ideas,
	to let them reach their full fruition,
these misguided babas that Dada rears
	are suffering some serious malnutrition.
Their uncultivated imagination nears
	the final stages of attrition.

It is quite clear that they have not earned
	the key to Imagination's lock.
Through their empty offerings, Fantasia is spurned -
	at her door they do not bother to knock.

It is a sad artistic catastrophe :
how imaginations could suffer such atrophy.

These artists are like the remaining scraps of paint upon the palette :
	Creative dregs!