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.

Tuesday, 29 May 2012




My hand hammering awkward on the earth, mouth a gap, tongue round the neck
blushes cold river drops, the sideways kick of a lame dame
sitting, wading, angled brow, powdered realism in the rolling rapids of the lost frame
whips away the sound bite
loud vibes in my tight skull, ears pop sickly in the rain.
poured over the red light, the time passing away the coast
the tense rhythm in time,  Christmas ruins.
Being let in the bouquet, I’m in the tide of mind, in a sour wet field.
A Lie.

Thursday, 24 May 2012

Word Painting

anachronistic naked hands holding halo shards stolen from a glimmering uneven sea A STORM BEFELL GLASS HOUSES STANDING SHAKEN BEFORE A BLARING MASS MARKET BROADCAST the ones who dance on slanted platinum sheets beneath a struggling moon DISILLUSIONED TRUDGING HORDES WANDERING BLINDLY INTO CANYONS OF SANITARY STEEL subtle scents of ozone and rain wafting beneath a grey unchanging ceiling LED TO THE CLIFF OF JAGGED BONE FROM WHENCE THERE IS NO SOUND SCREAMING a song sung from across a splendid distance in the heavens but there are no ears except theirs to welcome it in BLEEDING STARS TERMINATE IN THE UNEVEN SEA WITH BONES BECOMING HALOS IN AN EXPANDING GALAXY OF BLASPHEMOUS UTTERANCES anachronistic naked hands building tenuous bridges beyond the skyline

Thursday, 10 May 2012

I am a septic tank filled with sceptic thoughts.
A junkyard dolly made of china in world filled with plastic.
I see the spit filled, shit mired world and realise it is not the planet that is the problem.
Industry rolls on with commerce fuelling its engines.
Education is harnessed to the wheel so to produce more cogs to grind.
In a world overabundant with auditory and visual impressions we chase the sound of cash.
Gone are the artisan and the apprentice.
The tradesman harries the wary who spread their excel sheets.
It is the kingdom of the admin dependent, anal retentive executive.

“This turning they kept for the space of one whole hour at least, during which time, sometimes they turned exceedingly swiftly, sometimes very gently. After they had half done, the singer in the upper room began to sing again, at the pronunciation of some of whose words,, the dervishes mumbled out certain strange terms, with a most hideous kind of murmuring that did in a manner terrify and astonish us...The forms of their dancing is as strange as the continence of their swiftness, for sometimes they stretch out their arms as far as they can in length, sometimes they contract them in a lesser compass, sometimes they hold them about their heads, sometimes again they perform certain merry gestures, as if they were drawing a bow and shooting an arrow...The violence of their turning it so great, that I have heard some of them have fallen down dead in the place.”
  The English traveler, Thomas Coryate. 1613

Trapping Angel

Trapping Angel

28"x 32"
acrylic/fluted sbs