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.
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.
Posted by doriandra