The Church of Satan owes me money. 

-

Jorge Louis Borges. 

Two English Poems 

1934.

The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-
      corner; I have outlived the night.
   Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves
      laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with
      things unlikely and desirable.

Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,
      of things half given away, half withheld,
      of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act
      that way, I tell you.

  The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds
      and odd ends: some hated friends to chat
      with, music for dreams, and the smoking of
      bitter ashes.  The things my hungry heart
      has no use for.
   The big wave brought you.

Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily
      and incessantly beautiful.  We talked and you
      have forgotten the words.

 The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street
      of my city.

 Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to
      make your name, the lilt of your laughter:
      these are the illustrious toys you have left me.

I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find
      them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and
      to the few stray stars of the dawn.
   Your dark rich life ... 

 I must get at you, somehow; I put away those 
      illustrious toys you have left me, I want your
      hidden look, your real smile -- that lonely,
      mocking smile your cool mirror knows.

II

 What can I hold you with?
   I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the
      moon of the jagged suburbs.
   I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked
      long and long at the lonely moon.

 I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts
      that living men have honoured in bronze:
      my father's father killed in the frontier of
      Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,
      bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in
      the hide of a cow; my mother's grandfather
      --just twentyfour-- heading a charge of
      three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on
      vanished horses.

   I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, 
      whatever manliness or humour my life.
   I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never
      been loyal.
   I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved,
      somehow --the central heart that deals not
      in words, traffics not with dreams, and is
      untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
   I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at
      sunset, years before you were born.

I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about
      yourself, authentic and surprising news of 
      yourself.
   I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the
      hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you 
      with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

"..the first test of any work of art is survival" 

- George Orwell.

You'll be taken as far as your confidence lets, the adventure as strong as the amount of steps that you prove

breath deep, breath deep and hold your heart in your hand, stay strong and slip your knowledge into every cunning plan

because the abyss will gaze long into you

it has your history on its side and it knows what you do

the exact weight of your world

every second and repair

itll sink in, to the caves of your being

sat heavy as stone for however long it finds appealing

it will snarl its teeth and wait, sleep sound inside your ribcage

you will be taken as far as your confidence lets you

you men made of stone steady rusting your metal

hey Achilles hows the ankle? 

is Hercules still hobbling afraid of his back still?

you immortals, you proud men of bars

does what you perceive make sense to you? does your reality fit the price tag attatched to your shoes? 

you swing low enough as far as youre concerned, that sweet chariot conquered now waiting to be burned

is Sisyphus still pushing that rock up the hill?

you're looking lusty love, wanna come for a pint and a fuck down the pub?

you immortals, you men of plenty

untouchables sporting desire offensive. 

brick a brack brains and lack of perspective 

oh faith of men, how secure and strict you are to your hours of sunlight

how tight and rigid your movement have become

you must learn madness and you must face the night, bold as it approaches and takes with any life left in acquaintance of the day. No forms, no memories just a sleak silken mystery that birthes horror and wonder in equal measure. 

You must learn to face the night. 

Graffiti without danger is just Art.
Exploration without illegality is circular.

An Art which is defined by the illegality of its nature finds its exuberance, freedom & overall longevity in the way that it goes about perpetuating itself. Outside of the aesthetic it has been said to have found in its primary visual form Graffiti opens up the world in the writers constant need to explore his surroundings in order to continue producing his work.

Without our Art we are mere urban explorers, but within its legal framework we begin to deconstruct the myths that encapsulate the economic (& some might say there the entire) system which define how to view our environment, which then in part govern the way in which we view our lives. 

"There is a world waiting for us to live in it"

They'll say we've seen the end of the war. 

They'll say that the liberties gained are better, louder & more defiant than the love lost, or the empty feeling in the hollow pit of my stomach. 

But my hands are covered in scars from jumping into thorn bushes to avoid passing freight trains. 

Their monstrous gaze howling down the track, solemn creatures worming their silvery, sectioned bodies across the landscape. 

My bones are all of an ache from exhaustion, when the idealism of the artist stops the feel of 3 hour walks can be felt in every pore. 

When the adrenaline surge shudders to silence, what is left is the shell of person turned superhero under cover of dark. 

All clark & bruce & peter parker, constantly pining.

“It’s really interesting to push yourself   physically and mentally to try and map a city,” he tells me. The physicality of painting means roaming the streets in a manner that many day-to-day citizens would never conceive of, and the intimate knowledge of the city structure fosters a deeper understanding of societal fabric. “To understand how much of a city space you can transgress and break through” is the goal, as Katsu explains, but that act also allows for an appreciation of the physical makeup of the urban environment – an ability to “understand the full social demographic layout of a city.”
- KATSU / ACCLAIM MAGAZINE. 2013