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.

Monday, 2 July 2012

tried everything, little sacks of blood and fiber which he was not fond of. cradled restless blood clots from the back of his head as the white lights sped by. tried it all, spun forwards and back into a giving universe that shied away, curiously repelled by the gaze of his face. these things are mere matter now, echoes. i politely banish you from my dreams yet will always gaze upwards at the air that supports you.

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