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.

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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2 comments:

Oilsforfun-Cristina Homem de Melo said...

love the scenery as usual CJ and the gradual dying of moments

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

Thanks Cristina.