Concrete Dreams

steam exhaled from a manhole mouth masks
a shady silhouette stalking the late night
london fog. feral eyes glint beneath hood
steel tension talons clasp suited blueblood heart
heat flushes a florid face like schoolgirl blushes
sweat stained Armani acquires a new taste. fear
taints the air. “who’s there” quavers impotently
lacking the power to pierce the satin night
the mist swirls, curling vapor now empty of eyes
disappeared like half remembered memories
slipping away in a miasma of excess and sex
lost in the creeping clouds, time inhales pain
the breath of a hundred thousand ghosts
rises from ancient streets. cloying, concealing
secrets and sins soon lost in the amnesiac mists
“twas nothing” brow wiped “jus drunk thassall”
and the suit stumbles home to privilege and power
the silhouette alone owns the witching hour
from the shadows he reemerges to regard
his prison home canvas companion
clack clack clack hiss.
stroke after stroke.
clack clack clack hiss
layer upon layer.
a black shadow in the London night, alive
carving, crafting, proving, demanding
recognition. redemption. rescue.
mosaic murals the blood of the streets
the suns first rays find the artist departed
returned to his grave, hidden in his barrow
waiting to haunt the city another night
left behind his mark on the street wall
a skull and crossbones, fifty feet tall
postmodern piracy, hijack legacy
subvert the very walls that hold you in
repaint the world with a grin