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.

3 comments:

CHM -Cristina Homem de Mello said...

like the bouquets a lot
and their colors

TICTAC said...

love this Aaron. dense with images.

A.Decker said...

full of flavor