Existence is of little interest to me except on days when the dusts
of reality are mingled with the magic sands
I had written this on a poster that was promoting a male deodorant
It had been borrowed from Proust but I had disguised this fact
As only the switched on minds would have appreciated my small humour
A busker had witnessed my vandalism but continued with his song
As did the station employee who really I believe did not give a fuck
So many people hated their jobs
I hated mine and had dreams of leaving with a single fingered salute
But my plans were always desolate and reeked of decay
This is the reason that I defaced subway posters with quotes that I had either stolen or made up myself
I thought that I was an urban artist but I was nothing like that
Graffiti was the art of the masses but I knew that the great unwashed did not understand a word of what I was saying
They probably knew more about Cornflake cartons than they did of Proust
A photograph of Marcel Proust on his death bed revealed the growth of a beard
I was growing a beard to disguise myself as I knew that the cops had my likeness and would catch me before long
In their eyes I was a public nuisance a time waster who was spoiling things for others not that they gave a shit about subway posters
The trains were the important thing not some cunt spraying deodorant on to his strangely shaven armpits
I was actually doing them a service for as well as educating them I was an entertainer a wit and a philosopher all rolled into one
Subways and Proust was my only tag