Sneaker-shopping in a pop-up
with its inevitable contact and inevitable uncoupling
allows you to pass through a portal
without knowing where or why
without clicking Agree
without committing to the restraining order
of the unannounced . . .
Words squeeze into thought bubbles . . .
The spooky genius in you hazarding extinction
graffitis delusions in water closets
with images of Banksy's Dismaland
that take on a life of their own . . .
You worry the envelope being pushed . . .
the takeaway being taken away . . .
Does the alternative,
strewn with spirals of trashed autofictions
in corrosive landfills
appeal to you? . . .
Why bother you ask? . . . No idea? . . .
The rehearsal to get it right, alone, without collaboration,
is about to begin and may be enough, you think,
to confess to, again and again and again . . .
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| Banksy's Balloon Girl |