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.

Thursday 29 November 2012

See My Delta From The Stars

 

 Model: Eva Plaisir

Prose Poem Two

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The fridge when opened casts a sterile light. I rummage around seeking something to nibble. The chill nips my fingers as I turn over various items; the slab of cheese sliced at an inaccurate angle; the yoghurt pots that cling to each other’s lids like conjoined twins; the foil wrapped pasta from last night’s meal. I settle for a chocolate digestive from a packet buried in a cupboard. Filling the kettle I wait for it to boil. A watched pot never boils or so Nana used to say. It does though. The lounge has one light on, an up-light, and one candle burning on a stand in the corner near the patio doors. The TV screen is blank. I turn it on to cover the sound of the conversation held upstairs. I watch Lewis. TV, tea and biscuit
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Friday 23 November 2012

Prose Poem One

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I pass through the vacuum of the landing that is covered in dark blue carpet. Above me the ornate light fitting hangs on temperance high. A silent padding of boot heels in the hollow haunted hallway, on the soft shoe shuffle stairs. The bedroom with its white bed linen and pale blue walls beckons. The door creaks open like the gradual dying of moments; rusty, crusty and dry. Candle light casts a dancing kabuki. From the open window a light breeze ruffles memories. It’s the same old drama; it’s the same old scene. Outside the garden whispers; a wind shivers the trees. Dead leaves gather in a rogues rustle, conspirators all. The screen of the computer sits silent. It is the only other sign of life here now. The mirror reflects a diminishing façade. And even in sleep the same nightmare dream. Nothing moves here anymore less it is the slow pulse of sleep or that flickering screen.
 
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Friday 16 November 2012



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In a string of loveless living
Pearl drops in a white basin
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Thursday 8 November 2012