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.

Wednesday, 10 October 2012

And now a silence of well-worn regret

That whispers wistfully behind the edge of conversation.

The remote face at the television screen

Never looks at you, never smiles, forever faraway.

Somewhere over the blue horizon

a dream escorts a wounded memory,

Footsore, swollen, treading hungrily to reclaim lost ground;

Time wasted by petulant disregard.

Another sin in a cul-de-sac of sinners.
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1 comment:

Aaron Held said...

Every line fits perfectly, I really like this.

13 October 2012 at 03:30

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