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.

Wednesday, 28 September 2011



            Last week I met a guy in a pub. He was random of course, the pub was deliberate, well, habitual. Anyway, this guy could do amazing vocal impressions of the famous and slightly known. Problem was he could only do the impression once, ask him to repeat a mimicry and he’d find that he couldn’t. After a few brilliant impressions I turned my attention to sipping at my drink, and he to talking about his day. Christ could he talk! He talked about pineapples being 5p each at Apples and Things the grocers. I glanced at him and for a moment, just a moment, he looked exactly like a pineapple. I went back to my drink and he to talking. He started nattering on about the realistic dildos at his favourite sex shop, Felch and Sons. Bored I looked at him yammering there in the deliberate pub and thought to myself, you fucking dickhead!

1 comment:

A.Decker said...

Ha!Ha! That's priceless.