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, 12 July 2011

...

render it hapless, disavow the illusion. happy times, these are mine. understated, made of shrouded terrors. hello in that one nameless second and the echo resumes. pomegranates and peeling skin, these, our unwieldy messes.

2 comments:

Russell 'C.J.' Duffy said...

The image is terrifying but it is the staccato words that hit like bullets

Ruela said...

!!!