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ART
And
we have art. On the back
wall of the Garden Centre
night-rascals
get off on glue. They
rattle the mixing marbles
in
their spray cans of brimstone yellow, lead white, stag-beetle black,
and
scythe yards of brick with graffito tags, with IDs like ‘Jojo’,
got
from viz. mags, farty and wicked, loaded with insurrection.
Apprentices
with no meister, no sorcerer main man, except
the
chaotic ur-spirit of Orc cooked up among their own number,
they
stretch in their droopy bottoms, strain their skinny fingers
like
antennae which can smell every each whiff of starlight.
Each
tag a blobby abstract, every stroke, bowl, ascender, crossbar
so
fat that no gap or ring-zone is void, and the mascara outlines
peak
with exuberant control as the yellow glyphs hug together
like
fractal devils and angels that would fill every plank of space.
Alan
Marshfield
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