330. Krap with a K.


I hate parks, public parks.

I don’t dislike them, I detest them.

I mean – if they are indeed public

then why all the cast-iron railings ?

just who are they railing against?

who exactly are they half-heartedly intending to

keep out of these ring-fenced Victorian repositories

of dog shit & cola cans ?

Who’s going to steal your dog shit anyway?

your HIV-infected needles ? your slop-filled condoms ?


I know I’m speaking a veritable sacrilege here –

as We are wholly enamoured of these bleak bare

muddy careworn patches of mediocre-manicured “lawns”

& vandalised saplings of Sycamores & Rhododendrons

– the urban guerrillas of the horticultural world

guarded over by grey squirrels & magpies

– the Asbo’d hoodies of the animal kingdom.


“No Ball Games” our Victorian patriarch booms from

a rusty sign with miserly glee

 – you miserable bastards

– isn’t that what parks are made for ?

for children ? for fun ? for boomerangs & balls ?

and laughter and running and shouting ?


When some future Time Team turns over some rusty railings

and a statue of Albert in a corner of a hypermarket carpark

what conclusions can they possibly draw?


“Ah, yes, this was obviously a sombre religious site where

the ancients went to die,

with their Zimmer frames & tartan shopping carts,

or to contemplate suicide, maybe, in it’s various formats;

 – and as our artist’s impression shows,

it must have been very conducive indeed”.