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, 2 August 2011

Baguette

Remember that time Bobby Goloid lost his leg riding his bike on the pavement. A time when coppers would still stop you for that offence in their grand prix motorcycle sidecars. Well, that was the case, until the incident with Bobby, when he got his leg severed by a stale baguette carried by a for then, it must be said, cultured couple of coppers. Sticking out it was - the baguette – from the edge of the sidecar as they zoomed in to pull him up for locomoting along the pavement. The collision of baguette and leg left Bobby with a ragged gushing stump. It seemed unreal – in fact it had de-seamed. But he still rode on for a bit, foot in the racer’s pedal’s grip, the detached limb slapping around. Nearby, I heard an old man whisper as he smoothed a hand across naked scalp “the hopper, the hopper.

2 comments:

A.Decker said...

This caused tickling sensations to either side of my frontal lobe, or thereabouts...

doriandra said...

twas an excellent ride..