The place was full of durries,
Awash with bits of beer
A thousand smells of hashish
Had been alive just here.
The bins were full of stubbies
The loos had overflowed
The tagging on the dunny walls
Put graffiti back in vogue.
The air was still and clear today,
A reminder fading fast
of what had been
a night of art
and tattoo artists’ hearts.
A fine outline in Roarke
and colour fills in pink
and blue and orange, secret codes
of love for quiet men
whose art kills street scapes, ink.
The colours of the rainbow,
not gay or only gay,
the love of this small army
the passion of this tribe.
A sharp outline, a wicked smile,
A skull entrenched on skin
Adorns these walls
And all the halls
Where no-one calls it sin.
Peter Breen ©2014



Great poem mate
LikeLike
“Where no-one calls it sin.”….
Well said!
LikeLike