Ever an oddity in the urban environment
I took comfort in his promise to store his masks
Under the kitchen sink. To be a discount store
Luchador must be a treacherous occupation,
pinning injustices against the canvas at the risk
Of a second screening at the border. It is not fair
To be compelled to self-banish, but is it both
Protest and fear?
He instructed me to make bombs of creation, reclamation,
And with this understand I can aggressively love
The cracks in concrete, spilt them wide open without
Force, with cornflower and lady’s bedstraw. This slow
Detonation gets played over again in my mind
As I shop for powder clay and fertile compost, dreaming
Of this being a possible pastime to share with
My baby daughter.
Only the other day, where the city centre recedes
Into the residential, posters appeared on the chipboard
Partition walls of the derelict children’s hospital, my preferred
Site for bombing. They read ‘FUCK OFF, BORIS’. Unlike
The usual gumpf that gets plastered here, the builders
That are never seen, but heard drilling and smashing
Deep within have chosen not to rip them down
Or paint over them.
Perhaps this time they agree.
