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, 28 December 2012


birdie bland felt cold last night, sought out miss dulcie wintle, said let's go to the alley cock fight.
'no birdie, not me, not since someones gone and eaten my sanity... it's like when you built my house on hens legs stilts which ain't no good when a water snake does swim my way..'

Monday, 17 December 2012

Prose Poem Four

Tesco sells flowers. They stand them in bunches in buckets of water tightly grouped together looking at you like children in an orphanage wanting you to select one of them, if not children then dogs with reckless faces that nod in supplication. They, the blooms are the stuff of ardour, of love. They are gifts given on mothering Sunday or to a lover, a wife or someone dear to you. These are the flowers of romance or flowers for funeral parlours, their petals soft, colour coded to match the mood: love and death, birth and decay – two ends of the same spectrum. I touch the blooms, feel their velvety softness. I rub my forefinger and thumb against them then lift my fingers to my nose. The musky scent is like the earth, pungent like the mystic force of sex. The thought of buying a bouquet crosses my mind, but no one has died. No moon or stars have eclipsed my sky.

Tuesday, 4 December 2012

Prose Poem Three


She shouts her hate at me. I shout mine back. Tit for tat, tit for tat. Two adults returned to childhood. Name calling like spitting cats. Claws sharpened by razor thin hurt, the subtleties of communication descending to primitive depths. Doors slam shut loudly in the face of memory. The fuzzy edges of love turned sour. Sentences formed in full caps.  Sentences never finished - Punctuation emphasising the fractured syntax of the relationship. At the epicentre of the conflict lies blame. It is a bruised fist of unequal proportions. North of England is flooded. Silt covers carpets and the lower floors of houses. An advert sings. A newscaster informs. Silence shunts the sound of rage into submission as TV regains sway over the empty living room.  

Thursday, 29 November 2012

See My Delta From The Stars


 Model: Eva Plaisir

Prose Poem Two

The fridge when opened casts a sterile light. I rummage around seeking something to nibble. The chill nips my fingers as I turn over various items; the slab of cheese sliced at an inaccurate angle; the yoghurt pots that cling to each other’s lids like conjoined twins; the foil wrapped pasta from last night’s meal. I settle for a chocolate digestive from a packet buried in a cupboard. Filling the kettle I wait for it to boil. A watched pot never boils or so Nana used to say. It does though. The lounge has one light on, an up-light, and one candle burning on a stand in the corner near the patio doors. The TV screen is blank. I turn it on to cover the sound of the conversation held upstairs. I watch Lewis. TV, tea and biscuit

Friday, 23 November 2012

Prose Poem One

I pass through the vacuum of the landing that is covered in dark blue carpet. Above me the ornate light fitting hangs on temperance high. A silent padding of boot heels in the hollow haunted hallway, on the soft shoe shuffle stairs. The bedroom with its white bed linen and pale blue walls beckons. The door creaks open like the gradual dying of moments; rusty, crusty and dry. Candle light casts a dancing kabuki. From the open window a light breeze ruffles memories. It’s the same old drama; it’s the same old scene. Outside the garden whispers; a wind shivers the trees. Dead leaves gather in a rogues rustle, conspirators all. The screen of the computer sits silent. It is the only other sign of life here now. The mirror reflects a diminishing façade. And even in sleep the same nightmare dream. Nothing moves here anymore less it is the slow pulse of sleep or that flickering screen.

Friday, 16 November 2012

In a string of loveless living
Pearl drops in a white basin

Thursday, 8 November 2012

Wednesday, 31 October 2012

Digging Your Own Grave

Your hands starts scraping,
the dirty floor,
with your flaky dry hands...
from the sand and dirt,
rips open your skin,
see the bone,
the skeleton hands,
reaching down,
digging out the dirt,
see the blood flow
deeper the hole goes,
more the flesh pulls
Laying each bone,
on top of another,
the skin layering,
draping over,
the bones,
let the dirt fill back in
from the quivers
of your shake, rattling
dirt trickles in,
teeth shake & shiver ...
in the dark,
eye balls blink,
and the brain
doesn't think...anymore...

Thursday, 18 October 2012

Ant Colony

 The word Colonyervinat began as Roman colonia include citiesement prescoming fro is a city mes from the Latin word colōnia. This in turn derives from terminology is taken from architectural analogy, where a rvient beneath the controlling head (with 'capitaed) head capital, which is also a biolo pillar is beneath from Belgrade to York. A tell-tale sign of a co this etymology. Other, less obvious settlements th Cologne is an example of a settlthe (often stylizmeaning 'head'). So colonies are not independently self-controlled, which m settlement once being a Roman egical analog of the body as subsm the Latin caput, l, but rather are from a the word 'eans colonist but also implies a farmer.gcentre with a grid pattern. The entity that serves the capital function.

Monday, 15 October 2012

There was I alone beneath the quavering moon. The stars hung about the sky like swallows on a birch tree. There was hunger on the horizon but nothing compared to my own appetite that gnawed insidiously at my stomach. I laid the calico cloth on the dewy meadow. It spread as a whisper over the bent grass.  Above me a silent midnight owl passed across the heavens casting a pale shadow on the ground. I opened the wicker basket taking out two plates, two sets of cutlery and two thin glasses all of which I set upon the coarse white fabric of the makeshift table cloth. Then I pulled out the bottle of Dom Perignon along with a silver corkscrew inscribed with two names: Adain and Branna.

I poured the first glass for my true love. The wine flowed free gurgling like a water spirit. It was as though the air from her lungs, seeking the gift of oxygen, hissed and bubbled. I remembered stones shifting under rushing water. A turf caught by the hook of her heel tumbled with a splash into the river. It made a dull splash. The sound was a conclusion; a door being shut on someone’s history.

I raised my glass to her then tipped a libation to the ghosts of our ancestors; to the unspoken, forgotten gods who trembled with impotent neglect before leaving us to our own devices. I chinked my glass against hers. The sound was of a miniature church bell tolling a welcome to the midnight hour; a fulsome pagan ring that sent three wood pigeons to heavy winged flight. They’re such stupid birds I said smiling at her. I laughed at my own wit then poured more champagne. I took from the basket four white tureens. Lifting the lid from the first I saw honey glazed carrots; in the second the roasted breasts of young partridges; in the third buttered asparagus whilst the fourth contained new potatoes coated in butter then garnished with mint.

I kissed those lips of ruby red, I caressed that ivory throat, cupped her warm breast in the palm of my hand, held her body next to mine as it quivered with pleasure, and watched those grey eyes fade to white.

The wind blew softly warning me of the autumn chill. I felt a shiver run down my spine. It could have been her fingers tracing my backbone’s curve

I asked, are you not eating my love? Her appetite was never large. Realising my error I took her glass, still bubbling with champagne, by the stem then walked to the river. Her face still beautiful to me, her smile of purest white, reflected now in the mirrored waters of the river. I poured another libation into the chuckling stream - to the memory of times gone by.

"And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all."

Saturday, 13 October 2012

Same as before...

See the features
to the new night
fresh wondering mind
Its the same
then maybe
that's alright.

My sham
a hero
which can
like before...

That's just my game
weed me out
endanger me
impossibly plastic
a little bright
see the flame
body fluid
like me
with illness.

Walked into line
a law giver
but satirically mocking
this self
out of necessity.

I melted out loud queue
let breed.

I run to the door
sentence split

I thought
I shall re adjust.

Each fly wanders down
I drain myself
and rearrange

Heart warps
place me tightly, pack me in
with imagine of the satellite smile
ripped plucked and fluttered
awe muttered
in synch
sirens reach me
by the
rider of the instance
still beautiful
deal out
bail out
to flight
please lead me
place me in a row of pawns


Friday, 12 October 2012

Thursday, 11 October 2012

"Have we vanquished the enemy? None but ourselves. Have we gained success? That word means nothing here."
As it is above, so below. Ashes to ashes, as we fall, may we rise. A myriad sky beckons, full of horror and grace.
Goodnight, be at rest.

Wednesday, 10 October 2012

And now a silence of well-worn regret

That whispers wistfully behind the edge of conversation.

The remote face at the television screen

Never looks at you, never smiles, forever faraway.

Somewhere over the blue horizon

a dream escorts a wounded memory,

Footsore, swollen, treading hungrily to reclaim lost ground;

Time wasted by petulant disregard.

Another sin in a cul-de-sac of sinners.

Monday, 8 October 2012

...waiting for the end of the day.

Eyes fading black
at what your eyes want
more then they can take
sounds that puncture
lying softly
to get back on track
everyone has gone away
at a different rate
we have dealt with the street coming back
lost impressions in the last track
every price we have got to pawn
we take away from the heat
a little piece of earth
ease of anticipation
I'm left, your insides
cast me out
don't shout or pout
or rewind everything
lingering fears quietly rehearsed
at the play of my honor
on the look out for feeling
feeding the
I ballet hello to the next good day
waiting for the night's cry
dry your eyes
there's no way to stay or retreat like everyone does
so long to the great long goodbyes.
spotting terrible eyes by chance with a glance
please take my side
lets slip
until the blinding light takes us
faces us all
we shall want to shout
where am I?!
where do I stand?!
...waiting for the end of the day.

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

Down by dirt bag the hells of shallow breathing
Remotely viewed by callow individuals
Who know little of passion but purvey pursuits
Accessed by cold machines
The digit details attract ions

As I fade from that screen

the sad faces of happy artists

Friday, 21 September 2012


You, my visual stimuli,
My virgin word,
Wrought on an even keel
An even temper
An even

Folding beneath the wind
your WINGS

I am the unicorn of myth and fable so
Lay my bones upon your

And you can be my Columbine,
My tragedy of wicked times,
My trick and treat,
My honeycomb,
And I shall be your stepping stone


Monday, 27 August 2012

Abismo Humano vol. 1 + Artwork

Sunday, 19 August 2012

egg lice gold

and so the sun, once a tale telling magnification, failed to reflect upon the marrow of the bone, leaving shadow and chaos. and i was blinded, never the less. such is the way of mortal things.