Graffiti Artist
I am the ghost flitting from underpass to underpassunseenspray can in hand - the tools of my trade,a tiny marble inside.Shake ithear my rattling heart arming the toolsused to cover the walls.With a storm of cobalt blue or feusha pinkunder the press of a fingerI write a city’s shorthand.An artform sprayed upon a city's cold grey concrete canvasses.I don't speak in whispers;I speak in sudden sharp hisses, and suddenly a wall becomes a piece of art,a distraction over which to muse,I release the vaporised colourthat turns a dull afternoon into a streak of lightning! I am a rebel on a citys marginswhere the alphabet is twisted into wildcolourful tangled knots.Mystical phrasesunknown words,I am a secret handshakeknown only by a fewviewed from a passing traina hissing signature left by a soulless face. My art is not for everyone.I am not what the major arthouses welcome - although my art is available in publicwith no entrance feeI'm not main-stream!I turn the everyday into art - unappreciated by many,frowned upon by most,and criminalised by society, I am forced into thenightime shadowsI always polarise - artistic expression,or criminal damage? What do you think?