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?
