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.
Saturday, 22 September 2012
Friday, 21 September 2012
Ƨwɘɘƚnɘƨƨ
You, my visual stimuli,
My virgin word,
Wrought on an even keel
An even temper
An even
Center
Folding beneath the wind
your WINGS
Darling
I am the unicorn of myth and fable so
Lay my bones upon your
Table
Darling
And you can be my Columbine,
My tragedy of wicked times,
My trick and treat,
My honeycomb,
And I shall be your stepping stone
Darling
My virgin word,
Wrought on an even keel
An even temper
An even
Center
Folding beneath the wind
your WINGS
Darling
I am the unicorn of myth and fable so
Lay my bones upon your
Table
Darling
And you can be my Columbine,
My tragedy of wicked times,
My trick and treat,
My honeycomb,
And I shall be your stepping stone
Monday, 10 September 2012
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
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