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, 23 September 2011


      I met a man in a bar. A gold bar, an ingot in which we were encased. Being a soft malleable metal we made small incremental movements and eked out space for further more elaborate movements, gradually making ourselves at home. Any old road, he told me in, the small cave we had formed, about the time he tripped up a child in Autumn mist. It - he reported – stared back at him, incredulous, in uniform, in anxieties. Brown leaves – he told me drooling – fell about them in the moments stasis, in the formaldehyde freeze. “Happy times” he said, pressing against the newly carved space.