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, 21 September 2012


You, my visual stimuli,
My virgin word,
Wrought on an even keel
An even temper
An even

Folding beneath the wind
your WINGS

I am the unicorn of myth and fable so
Lay my bones upon your

And you can be my Columbine,
My tragedy of wicked times,
My trick and treat,
My honeycomb,
And I shall be your stepping stone