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, 31 October 2012

Digging Your Own Grave

Your hands starts scraping,
the dirty floor,
with your flaky dry hands...
peeling,
from the sand and dirt,
rips open your skin,
see the bone,
the skeleton hands,
reaching down,
digging out the dirt,
see the blood flow
in,
deeper the hole goes,
more the flesh pulls
off.
Laying each bone,
on top of another,
the skin layering,
draping over,
the bones,
let the dirt fill back in
from the quivers
of your shake, rattling
nerves,
dirt trickles in,
teeth shake & shiver ...
in the dark,
eye balls blink,
and the brain
doesn't think...anymore...



HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

3 comments:

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

Powerful stuff.

TICTAC said...

yes, powerful!

A.Decker said...

Jeezus H! I don't know who's more morbid. You for writing this, or me for finding it comforting. ;-)

Good one.