Graffiti Artist

​I am the ghost 

flitting from underpass to underpass

unseen

spray can in hand - the tools of my trade,

a tiny marble inside.

Shake it

hear my rattling heart 

arming the tools

used to cover the walls.

With a storm of cobalt blue or feusha pink

under the press of a finger

I write a city’s shorthand.

An artform sprayed upon a city's cold grey concrete canvasses.

I don't speak in whispers;

I speak in sudden sharp hisses, 

and suddenly 

a wall becomes a piece of art,

a distraction over which to muse,

I release the vaporised colour

that turns a dull afternoon into a streak of lightning!

​I am a rebel on a citys margins

where the alphabet is twisted into wild

colourful 

tangled knots.

Mystical phrases

unknown words,

​I am a secret handshake

known only by a few

viewed from a passing train

a hissing signature 

left by a soulless face.

My art is not for everone.

I am not what the major arthouses welcome - although my art is available in public

with no entrance fee

I'm not main-stream!

I turn the everyday into art - unappreciated by many,

frowned upon by most,

and criminalised by society, 

I am forced into the

nightime shadows

I always polarise - artistic expression,

or criminal damage?

What do you think?