The anonymous artist
calling herself You Fatalism
wants you to be shocked and delighted
by her detailed descriptions of mallard corpses
and her feather-flecked model aeroplanes.
The unsigned stencils,
found in unfashionable areas of Beijing,
add to the enigmaticity;
as do the occasional rumors,
that You is a collective of art-workers
in a Shenzhen business park
whipped by some opportunistic plutocrat
who sees art as the Next Big Thing.
And yet, when I study
the needle-thin tower,
a product of a thousand sparrow-bones,
or the smear on an eighteenth-story window
where an overambitious robotic bird has smashed,
I can only believe,
that You is a single intelligence,
with one obsessive thought.