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, 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


Ruela said...


A.Decker said...

yes, beyond the skyline