She stalks the playgrounds to gauge the mood,
Reading the graffiti tags; they’re the news today.
- The desperate irony of a lonely epitaph-
White Ace cans, broken glass and empty fag packets
Is the decorum she can expect.
Without need for an apology.
A palpable prick piercing its way
Through Twiggy’s face, scrawled on to spite
The artist’s grievances. Blasphemy which brackets
The rigmarole of the advertisement’s victims.
Banksy’s horns glare from walls and lamp posts,
Viewed by the meagre hooded hosts
Whose dumped-upon existence is kept at bay
By pub forecourts on Saturday night.
She dropped her shaky wits and turned to B & H for relief.
A misery forgotten by nobody’s made
So harshly present by the people paid
In fags and booze and all their loot
That’s plundered and pillaged and stolen to boot.
The sullen semantics of cheap urban antics.
In a list
Comments
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wow. i absoloutley love it. i feel like that..all the time.im mad at the whole world right now. love it love it. your a genious with a capital J dude.
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i adore the tone this has, somber and elegant, obsessive and dismissive simultaneously.
the language is great, fitting really. mystery hangs around the narrative: is this pity, repulsion, adoration? what separates said emotions?
the flow is rough but intentional, like a scribble over a misspelled word. i may use that simile in the future.
fav. line:
"Blasphemy which brackets
The rigmarole of the advertisement’s victims."
wonderful. don't change a thing.
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