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.
If the air is disturbed now and then by the death screams of a pig- well, there is slaughter even in paradise.
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Years ago, on a beach in Scotland, one that faces the Irish sea, I and my children came across what we thought was a rolled up carpet. It stank to high heaven but when we got closer we realised that it was in fact a sea lion that had been washed ashore. The gulls had pecked out its eyes. It lay upon the jagged rocks as if asleep. The next day the unforgiving ocean had washed it away.
Uuugh...uuuah...! I feel gassy.
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