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.

Saturday 16 April 2011

Animal Rights

In the blueing pre-dawn
The jellyfish dreams
Of a world without form

To the black sea sleep
The ocean drains with weep
Resounding, calling back
The inexchangeable.

In the austral sky
The jellyfish
Speaks for us
A blooming of echoes

We conceive
But never to the moon in her wake
But pulse to the fluorescent pink
Then night he holds quite white
Curled so strange in her delight
With transparent virgin appettite.

His rice body softer than the falling
Of so many milk suns. And so we love
The interior gleam
A poison beneath the umbrellas
Is there really no end to revelation?

I believe in the Rorschachs evenings.

2 comments:

Mersault (Nera B.) said...

Now I am quite white...

Beautiful

Anonymous said...

This is gorgeous. Jellyfish dreams...? I bet I'd enjoy watching a sunset, or moonrise, with you.