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.

Monday, 8 October 2012

...waiting for the end of the day.

Eyes fading black
at what your eyes want
more then they can take
sounds that puncture
lying softly
to get back on track
everyone has gone away
at a different rate
we have dealt with the street coming back
lost impressions in the last track
every price we have got to pawn
we take away from the heat
a little piece of earth
ease of anticipation
I'm left, your insides
cast me out
don't shout or pout
or rewind everything
lingering fears quietly rehearsed
at the play of my honor
on the look out for feeling
feeding the
I ballet hello to the next good day
waiting for the night's cry
dry your eyes
there's no way to stay or retreat like everyone does
so long to the great long goodbyes.
spotting terrible eyes by chance with a glance
please take my side
lets slip
until the blinding light takes us
faces us all
we shall want to shout
where am I?!
where do I stand?!
...waiting for the end of the day.

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