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.

Monday, 27 June 2011

Wherewithal the clawed finger

You don’t get rainfall as you once did.
Strange the way technology works.
The tic-toc of the relentless clock humbles even the cheeriest dawn.
Little by little children fade into the machinery.
The working class of Britain are now less than the middle-class.
Changes are a foot as the foot print of mankind grows.
Will we ever see the day?
How much for that ipad sir? How much for that Laptop?

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