Painter of Lite

In a world made of plastic gingerbread
Thom's vision adumbrates the squishy edges
Of glow-paned cottage, faerie flower bed,
Marshmallow-cobbled path betwixt twee hedges.

Each swollen contour is a piece of plush work,
Plumped like upholstery in a sultan's harem.
Angles surrender, slump as Kinkade's brushwork
Limns scenes with no acuteness to impair ’em.

He knows the art establishment conspires
Against his brand of wholesome optimism:
The work the gallery cabal admires
Aims to en garde! 'em; his aims to gee whiz! 'em.

Godless bohemians may underrate him,
But he damns their bleak art to evanescence
And prays posterity will consecrate him
Immortal priest of fluffy luminescence.

© Chris O'Carroll