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.

Sunday, 17 February 2013

Last Line First

Will words break silence,
Voices raised?

Between the windows of shattered dreams-

Who am I to reappear
Bearing bullets

(Break the continuum
Use the sound;
All the world bent
Double down)

Not numbered, not listed, not remembered,
Do we exist?

Said the vase to the chipping chalice.

One unsung verse laid on barren walls-
Tonight the words are brought back home.

I'm not an artist.


doriandra said...


Russell Duffy said...

Absolutely brilliant. I love the rhyming bit in the middle.

Anonymous said...

I don't know from poetry but enjoy this.