Piss Artist

He turns off the Mahler
Playing loudly
On the turntable
When he feels the weight
Of his urine leaving his kidneys
Beginning to push down
Through his urethra.

He likes total silence when he paints.

He looks out at the canvases
Laid out before him
Primed but virgin
And he thinks of his boyhood
Pissing in the shower...

In the snow...

He made a perfect flower once
And then later on a portrait
Of a girlfriend
He had a crush on...

He wagged his dick
Working from memory and passion.

Her portrayal had depth...

Shading and everything.

It was perfect for a few moments
Until the heat from the chemistry of his urine
Started to work on the cold snow.

The loft was silent
Except for the traffic noise outside
And then...

The treble of a continual stream of his piss
As it met the canvas’s surface
Bouncing off
With a hollow sound
Like rain in a cardboard gutter.

It splashed and rolled
Finding natural channels
And subtle low-lying basins
Upon the veneer of the sizing
Prepped on the linen fibers.

When he had drained himself
Waiting for the last trickle
To fall

Which
Was like forever

He turned his attention
Back to the turntable
And decided on something a little lighter.

Something with a bit of prankster in it
He felt.

He settled on Mozart.

A bit obvious he thought

But it fit his mood
And he settled in
To Mozart’s sonatas for forte-piano and violin
While he waited for
His canvases to dry.