318. 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”.