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, 17 December 2012

Prose Poem Four


Tesco sells flowers. They stand them in bunches in buckets of water tightly grouped together looking at you like children in an orphanage wanting you to select one of them, if not children then dogs with reckless faces that nod in supplication. They, the blooms are the stuff of ardour, of love. They are gifts given on mothering Sunday or to a lover, a wife or someone dear to you. These are the flowers of romance or flowers for funeral parlours, their petals soft, colour coded to match the mood: love and death, birth and decay – two ends of the same spectrum. I touch the blooms, feel their velvety softness. I rub my forefinger and thumb against them then lift my fingers to my nose. The musky scent is like the earth, pungent like the mystic force of sex. The thought of buying a bouquet crosses my mind, but no one has died. No moon or stars have eclipsed my sky.