He’s my painter, many people don’t understand him and just think he’s another handyman. But I see past the white spirit and the paint dried shirt through to the real man. He doesn’t care about where he splashes his paint or where he puts his roller, he’s a free spirit…his magnolia walls excite me I want to be abused and used by his border work.
Burt, oh how you entered my world and turned my grey walls the colour of a rainbow, oh Burt with your sixty year old perfected smokers cough your one lazy eye and your fragile hip. You are like a drug, your paint courses through my veins, Burt you’ve almost finished my living room now……melancholy gloom settles over me with thought of your departure….but Burt my kitchen needs doing. Time still for our souls to be intertwined in one last death throw of egg shell white.
Ode to a handy-man
Sorry SS :Here: couldn’t resist…..I did have my apartment decorated this last week but the fella was called Mahmoud.
I’m the lead residue in your paint,
I’m so toxic I’ll make you faint,
I’m the painter…so good it’ll make you hurt,
I’m the 65 year old artist formally known as Burt.
Thap Thtupendous
I’m dented.
[This message has been edited by Thap (edited December 07, 2001).]
Oh Burt Burt Burt you spin my world into a maelstrom of vinyl and mat. Everything is moving so quickly, the walls are raw and wet with your latest coat, the smell is making my head spin around and around. Oh Burt you decorate my interior, exterior and vernacular. Oh Burt the only thing that feels real anymore is the rhythmic movement of your wizened hands as they paint, paint…everything goes white…and I’m left all alone staring at the walls……………You missed a bit.
I’m the lead residue in your paint,
I’m so toxic I’ll make you faint,
I’m the painter…so good it’ll make you hurt,
I’m the 65 year old artist formally known as Burt.