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

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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1 comment:

PerthDailyPhoto said...

Sounds like last night in my house !!!!