Silence paralyses, or so it would seem to those with empty papers and momentary words.
A reprieve in a blink of summer, the drudgery of the United Klouds vacate.
I’ve rediscovered my world, as if a marital feud ceased with a glance of all its bounty.
Beauty, peace and a true love, I cry in refrain.
This is real Street Art.
Passing snap-backed supra-beings say gawking at the Cass-Art aerosol cans
spraying a haute-couture satire of our post-modern globe.
You see this Street Art represents something;
the impotent critique
of artists whose Guardian reading parent’s
lamented Maggie’s closure of the mines north of London,
while saving for their loved one’s housing deposit.
This Art covers the vandalism of before.
Those graffiti cans smeared the marks of a pre-developed community.
What message did that graffiti have?
Nothing legible to those subscribed to The Guardian nor Mail.
Nothing at all, save
the names of the former youth of the estate,
it now priced to evacuate its dutiful placeholders,
so that those formerly lamenting the closure of Maggie’s mines, now
have a place for their children to pursue their adult childhood fantasies.
Through the narrow streets of the gentrified east.
I roam the roads of Shoreditch, its cleanse in final revolution.
My soul pours
and Janelle Monaé.
Their melodic oeuvres
a soothing poetic massage.
birthing love’s shy vision.
You cannot find yourself, only create.