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, 19 October 2011
will resume transmissions soon enough once i complete the whittling down of a pine tree into a thin enough spike to remove the tightly sewn x stitches binding my mouth and mind.. finally freed my hands of their bounded catgut twine as evident after 21 long days of rubbing them back and forth on the floor in a furtive, almost masturbatory manner. things will improve. of this, i am sure.
Posted by doriandra