God Woz ‘ere

8 Feb

In the backstreets of Northcote, armed with a spray can and a ouija board, our hero stalks. He is a man on a mission, yet the particulars of that mission are unknown – hence the board. All he knows is that something must be said, and it must be said tonight. Oblivious to the lights of passing cars and the smell of piss from the Friday night tourists, he plants himself on the footpath and begins to summon his muse.

When the spirit infests him it is a familiar warmth – first his groin, then his stomach and finally his heart lights up. He knows what he must do. Impulsively he turns and throws the useless board away… it won’t tell him anything he does not know instinctively. He picks up the can and turns to the metal junction box, or whatever the hell it is, and pours out the contents of his illuminated soul, the great I Am … “God woz ‘ere”.

He does not linger for long to admire or even comprehend what has been written, but he leaves the place knowing others will come to honour their own inner light, or expel their inner darkness – be it with spray can, felt marker or prepared paper – for this is the sacrement they all share, and the city walls are their holy church.

God woz 'ere

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