Schooled at the University of Soho
‘Wayfarer, pause. Although you may not see,
Earth's bright children, herbs and flowers, are here:
It is their small essential souls that greet you ’ - John Heath-Stubbs
This garden breeds the wild and the tame
A raucousness that cuts back to the basest root.
Those oddballs, eccentrics, weirdos
The foes of the ’Norm’, enemies of society.
Wondering as leaves in the wind -
And as carefree as The Fates destiny –
As the Sybil knew and these her offspring.
“It is, what it is”. They can’t see. Only you.
Here in their Lincoln Park of the mind
Yet, not the soul, the soul has its own
Headword. Headliner. Head place.
Scribbling on the backs of buses
Graffitiing; whatever they can,
Wherever they can. Some remain. Most not.
Free from the burden….
Money remains when death & life
Have swept them past. Never to return.
Their words or oil emblazoned flesh remain.
After ‘Those’ who saw and rode around
Until, the Carrion Crow found them there.
The new air brings something other than before.
Their epitaph; understood by the few.
Their legacy remains “not as if they’d care”.
They’re in the ‘Now’, and always will be.
Time! The blind enemy, that intangible foe
Cannot pass without a quick salute,
before the suns passes
and the carrion crow squawks its tattoo.