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.

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