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.

Sunday, 3 July 2011

excerpted by hidden

"The printer shifted her to the other edge recycling the used stamp on her breasts similar to juicing oranges went memorial after passing out.

At the 7th stage, I believe even 8th they dramatically switched their sober will to seek for the toilet police at airports con carne du pont-


“It said the door was written only to the wall you see, you must watch the steps, them only are overrated” he wished a comb desperately.

The pain, gasping for breath just left. He missed the pockets, the lap, those places once a man goes to stay craving the pick on wounded heels!

Addicted to a lush life, as hermano Peraferróa La Pared hatched up only on things as advertisements try to eat our souls, and not ONLY ONCE

in a time, as ever suddenly stop caring about it’s role as retriever of death only, so why those arms skinny telling us the sun is ours?

Landscapes of marks calling for questions what is with her device., a tide behind your face telling me smiles.

It was of sudden behavior acting like a clown at rage such as Lux P0G0 were always proclaiming passing blessings!" - André Pissoir

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