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.

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

Down by dirt bag the hells of shallow breathing
Remotely viewed by callow individuals
Who know little of passion but purvey pursuits
Accessed by cold machines
The digit details attract ions

As I fade from that screen

1 comment:

Aaron Held said...

Have you been spending too much time on the internet? That's what this reminded me of, excellent post CJ.