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