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.