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.

Friday, 5 August 2011

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men with branded faces peering into the window of the wet nurse. crossing the great pond to escape into the soiled skirt folds of whores gracing the dampened streets painted in coal dust. he hands me the source of discomfort, the severed body part resplendent on a silken towelette with eyes flashing, we have a problem, dear and i am violently aroused, i am. absurd but let me electric light into your chest, yes, deep, alert. erect. yes. poised for a great and erotic flight.
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