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


You, my visual stimuli,
My virgin word,
Wrought on an even keel
An even temper
An even

Folding beneath the wind
your WINGS

I am the unicorn of myth and fable so
Lay my bones upon your

And you can be my Columbine,
My tragedy of wicked times,
My trick and treat,
My honeycomb,
And I shall be your stepping stone



Russell 'C.J.' Duffy said...

If I sound at all patronising then forgive me. It is only that you have improved beyond measure and that fact takes my breath away. This is superb. Succinct, aimed like a dagger to the heart. It really is rather splendid.

Shadow Lor said...

You've never come across as patronizing ^_^ Thank you very much.

Ruela said...

love it!

A.Decker said...

I like it. ;-)

Shadow Lor said...

Thanks, you guys ^_^ I've been gone a long time lol

Aaron Held said...

I really enjoyed this poem.