“Copyright is for losers.” —Banksy
Hopper urban loneliness.
Road to ‘Life?
Metamorphose into cuckoo, lay eggs in iffy “influencer” nest?
But my fledglings might merely form rookery to nourish
influx fantasist, even breach copyright.
Rush to forest where society’s poof-gone?
But any say here?
Maybe I’ve never worn this natural world’s linguistic face
and a memo from original state mightn’t be legal
within ‘global rookery’. Plus if I soar into aerial ballet
of murmuration of starlings might be ‘seen off’
to perish in stink of my old birdcage.
Still, if a quill falls I’ll forge ‘murmuration inclusion clause’
though white ballerinas in communal frenzy
might shoo gatecrasher black tutu akin Turner’s shun
of real skies as if luminosity and insubstantial
only way to essence.
Not odd how brush hairs stuck in Turner’s oil
and his emerald green toxic plummet me back to terra firma
where soil sucks nitrogen from exhaust fumes.
Glut of nitrogen-fond plants shrinking diversity but gifting oxygen.
But odd how Colorado potato beetle on healthy plant won’t chomp
—toxic not always absolute, can coexist with ‘in the pink’.
But within theoretical schism maybe safer spurning any hint
of individual emotion, even become Matryoshka doll,
and in mise en abyme blossom within narcissism.
On official road to my fated cul-de-sac
I stop striving to distinguish hemlock from cow parsley
for Nature and society volatile,
now under same emergency padlock, even
sometimes in tandem: cars carrying seed in slipstream
aid wildflowers form havens for imperiled
pollinators and folk sweep leaf-dance into piles to house Life,
apply mulch with no guarantee of reciprocity.
Downloading templates from Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr
ghosts clad in foliage graze my cheeks,
hinting perhaps pale, pointless life in social blueprint
and in rebuff of ‘the wild’ a bolting down the pixel rabbit hole.
Squat at road verge?
Now official wildflower splash along it but Banksy’s
‘flower thrower’ explosion on walls of conscience
(him in ‘fast lane’ under cover of dark)
illegal though now as icon secretly flashed ‘green light’.
Can forever-in-flux be copyright?
Between rustle of wildlife and wheel bustle, it dawns
compromise might be a mutinous ‘flower thrower’,
sort of ‘baby’s breath’ sweetening possible stagnation,
a verge knotted with daisies in a forever,
“He loves me. He loves me not” waver
as cars hurtle by laden with luxury digital bags
while at verge frenzied wildlife swings essential
but now more erratic bags: storm, drought, bushfire.
At dusk in yen to flourish
I’m a bat frantic to flit within Goldilocks zone.
On horizon emerges true road to ‘Flourish’ in now knowing
no need to be skittish over tossing hemlock or cow parsley
for Life’s absolute,
beyond any social mode between crèche and coffin.
Crumpling yellow post-it note to remind sun
it exists to serve me, I wax my nerve,
step off copyrighted yellow brick road.