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.

Thursday, 7 April 2011

Two things for the moment .... For eleven years, you have assisted me in ritualising the mundane for all those pilgrims of quantity. Between us, we managed to delete their experiments with morale. To that son of some bottomfeeder from the Potsdam carvery, now hairshirtlifting .... See the black hill (picture supplied), well, I'm the blond.

3 comments:

murmurists said...

Fiend spaces.
star crossed.
.
ABSOLVED

Ruela said...

"well, I'm the blond."






;)

murmurists said...

Thanks x