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Wednesday, 12 September 2018

Face Mask Poet

















Incognito; enigmatic; inscrutable;
no-one knew me for what I am.

To be seen but remain unseen
I took cover behind a geisha hand;
I let my masculine glare disguise me;
I bent my smile into a Mona smirk.

My cheerful half-wit grin
made lightness of being
into dead weight.

I wore insouciance like a veil
my thoughtless face shone through;
I contrived to look indifferent.

I tried to become mysterious,
both poet and spook, a secret agent
of the mean streets, metaphorically rubbing
my poison pen on the locks and handles
of doors closed in my face.

I could not abandon false modesty,
would not discard my furtiveness;
any more than I could reveal myself
or draw attention to my concealment.

Oh, I tried to keep the mask from slipping:
its elastic tugged at my Byronic locks,
constricted the blood-flow in my scalp,
in short, threatened to give the game away.

I grew tired of it all: this life and its mirrors,
my conceited reflection in shop windows
staring back at me over the heel of my hand
looking sideways round an obscuring book.

I had tried so vainly to be heard.

No-one knew me though I wanted them to,
every one looking while I stowed away
inside my illusion.

No-one knew me as I wanted them to;
everyone looking at a figure they imagined,
hiding in the shadows I had cast.

© Brian Hill

So who IS poetry's answer to Banksy? Meet the enigmatic writer delighting Instagram - and A-listers like Emma Roberts - with his work, all while his true identity remains a total mystery

‘Anonymous’ Instagram poet Atticus is taking us for a ride

Brian Hill. 50 years a poet. One-time designer and film-maker; long ago, the rhyme-slinger, cartoon cowboy, and planetarium poet; now feverishly stringing words together in the hope of making sense.
Brian blogs as Scumdadio (don’t ask).

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