We were perched on the walls lip, down stream from the hipsters smoking working-class DIY cigarettes,
The Regent’s Canal reflecting the last light of the day.
“This reminds me of the Congo, ” Wilfried starts.
“But I used to see dead bodies there”.
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.