The Dark Angels are a come and go crew. They create then disappear like street art. Their works exist in fragments, particles that float, dust motes that spin before the wind that blows them to faraway places. They are individuals that work as one. Deep as oceans, as impenetrable as the night. Art urchins and poets, they dissolve before they form. They are the Dark Angels, they are discharge. They are a bloody mouthful.

Wednesday, 20 March 2013

Monday, 18 March 2013

My Legs Lack Substance (Theft by E)

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Sunday, March 17, 2013 9:15:00 pm

Thursday, 28 February 2013

Love Lane

It’s such a saucy number,
It always makes me laugh when I hear it said.
Innocuous in itself
Allowing the mind to wander where it will.
“Where do you live” I asked.
“Sixty nine” she replied
“Really?”  I replied grinning
Her blushes made me feel uncomfortable
But the double entendre worked,
Sort of.
She smiled having heard the joke before,
So I shuffled away from her front door.
Sixty nine is such a saucy number
Especially when you live in Love Lane.

Wednesday, 27 February 2013

Stint of Fish

1001 books you must read before you die, 19th century, 20th century, a. a. milne, ackroyd, action, adventure, africa, african literature, alan moore, alternate history, american, american literature, animals, arthur conan doyle, atheism, aubrey/maturin, autobiography, aviation history, beatles, biggles, biography, biology, british, british fiction, british history, british lit, british literature, bronte, buddhism, c.s. lewis, charles dickens, chicklit, childrens literature, classic, classic fiction, classic lit, classic literature, classic sci-fi, comedy, comics, coming of age, conspiracy, contemporary, contemporary fiction, dan brown, daniel clowes, dark tower series, darwin, david nicholls, dystopia, edward marston, elvis cole, england, english, english literature, erotic romance, erotica, espionage, essays, evolution, fantasy, fiction, fictional biography, football, foundation series, frank miller, friendship, g.k. chesterton, george orwell, graphic novel, green mile, his dark materials, historical fiction, history, horror, humor, humour, isaac asimov, j.g. ballard, james bond, james herriot, jeeves and wooster, jeffrey archer, jilly cooper, john wyndham, london, magical realism, mark twain, memoir, music, mystery, neil gaiman, nick hornby, non-fiction, pat barker, patrick o'brian, peter ackroyd, philip pullman, poetry, raymond chandler, relationships, richard adams, richard dawkins, robert crais, romance, sandman, sarah waters, science, science fiction, sherlock holmes, short stories, social commentary, stephen king, supernatural, suspense, thomas hardy, thriller, utility fish, vampires, victorian, w. somerset maugham, w.e. johns, w.e.johns, world war 1 

pxnk not dead

Berlin/Camino El Vergel, Valparaiso, Chile

Tuesday, 26 February 2013

Prose Poem - Final

In giving herself to hate she committed to an emotion more powerful than she thought possible; more consuming than love, greater than despair. In so doing she effectively became the tool of the thing she unleashed - no longer its master but its slave.

Time is passing. It is a constant cascade of seconds tumbling into minutes that free-fall into hours. Days pass dragging weeks then months behind as seasons follow with the budding of blooms then the falling of leaves.

Life is for the living – an exercise in the present as the future takes care of itself whilst the past dresses in a filigree of nostalgia. The gift of life comes bearing responsibility to those we share existence with.

Her venom spilt into the stream poisoning its waters and all around it. The onlookers stared speechless, unable to conceive how such a thing could have happened.

Sunday, 24 February 2013

Sunday, 17 February 2013

Last Line First

Will words break silence,
Voices raised?

Between the windows of shattered dreams-

Who am I to reappear
Bearing bullets

(Break the continuum
Use the sound;
All the world bent
Double down)

Not numbered, not listed, not remembered,
Do we exist?

Said the vase to the chipping chalice.

One unsung verse laid on barren walls-
Tonight the words are brought back home.

I'm not an artist.

Friday, 15 February 2013

obnubilate \ob-NOO-buh-leyt\, verb:
to cloud over; becloud; obscure.

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

Saturday, 9 February 2013