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.

Tuesday, 5 April 2011

Tro and On. 1

Harlan released the rodent. Its claws dug into the wooden table top leaving scratch marks on the surface. His lit cigarette burnt the edge of the table releasing a spiral of smoke that flung its ghost like face above him. Harlan took the purple capsule and swallowed it down with a swig of water. The day dragged a calloused fist across the sulphurous sky.

to be continued
to be continued
to be continued

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1 comment:

Ruela said...

will follow...

5 April 2011 at 22:59

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