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.

Saturday, 21 April 2012



there are no secrets in this house
the emotions are too large.
silence has burned shadows, outlines
of despair etched in the walls.
I have cut my tongue,
bled words through clenched teeth
just to have something to
show for all this nothing.
pulling the dead
from my throat, double
handfuls of guts twisted
in too many broken fingers
I have tried to break free of this
blank expectant page


Tuesday, 17 April 2012


I held the sea, black bleeding
fingers, words flooding to
fill the gaps, fingers in holes
to stop the escaping. hands lacking the iron
spikes that have gone missing.
but need is fulfilled with sharp sucking
sounds and voids left
dry. I am left. I will
not die again. I will not release
to the prying fingers. There is no
twisted skin, there is
nothing much to hold and little time
for my blue eyes to see.


Friday, 13 April 2012


Almost all of our relationships begin and most of them continue as forms of mutual exploitation,
a mental or physical barter, to be terminated when one or both parties run out of goods.

- W H Auden

Thursday, 5 April 2012


they say I was her, died in November 1906 of pneumonia, water logged lungs, floating in an exquisite penumbral logic, born again in this life, 1969, pneumonia again, wee incubator, my awkward home, little fat legs kicking, arms pumping in indignation.