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.

Saturday, 21 January 2012


"...the Devil looked at me with a soft smile..."

Friday, 20 January 2012

bone vain and muscular pain (© Ana Deus by Albano Ruela)


from the wee perspective comes forth a great and egregious clamor. some bells fell from the tower and the steeple ripped the innards of a young cloud. so be it and so on and so forth..

Monday, 16 January 2012