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.

Wednesday, 9 January 2013

Prose Poem Five

For the want of trying they simply gave up. Each of them held fast to their bitter memories nurturing them as though they were the seeds of some delicious fruit being grown rather than a bilious loathing eating at their hearts like a cancer.
At the root of this odium was a hurt so huge it required an even bigger emotion to deflect the pain. It was hate that now gave fuel to their lives; it was hate that gave them purpose.
The shattered shards of their history lay in pieces on the stony ground reflecting sunlight and revealing the stains of their recrimination. It was as wanton an act as a war in the third world.


doriandra said...

oddly restful.. as when dolls collapse in peace.

Anonymous said...

This has left me wanting to hear more!

Russell Duffy said...

Thank you.