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 29 April 2011

The Truth In Easy To Manage Stages


i guess we all know what the truth is don't we?

you know, that little thing that lies somewhere between fantasy and fiction. the place where politico's hang out (m.p.'s and statesmen, liberals, democrats, businessmen, religious leaders et al).

they swing and spin that ball, the one they idly toss you when you leave the womb, and say hey boy CATCH. and you, with open eyed wonder hold your hands out.

i suppose, from a very warped perspective, it could be seen as amusing. all that dodging about like hamsters on a wheel and all in aid to eat and drink and sleep but tell me, what is so fucking funny?
is it the camaraderie of poverty that makes us cling together like survivors of a ship wreck holding fast to pieces of flotsam that go nowhere fast.

no i suspect not.

i suspect it has something more to do with greasy poles and ladders and the belief that one day ALL people will be just like us. driving four wheeled gas guzzlers that spit out noxious poison and have air cons rattling away like deep sea diver lungs replacing hot air with cool whilst a huge fucking hole hangs over us like the sword of damocles.

it stands to reason doesn't it? what is fair for one MUST be fair for all?

uh uh, you are missing the point girls and boys. NOW SIT UP AND TAKE NOTES!

this desperate race is only going one place and it is getting there damn fast.
it isn't the now, the why for or how that turns all futures into the past.
it isn't the deceits, cash register receipts that grow with increasing alarm.
it is the more than less that leaves you to guess why we're chained to this human farm.

that's it kiddies, that is the bottom line. not the bottom line of commerce that deals with net and gross and margins but the bottom line of us.

we are the bottom line and our margins have been so reduced by the thought of so much that we have just left the path, we have fallen off the cliff face.

welcome to forever.

welcome to paradise.
 


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

this brings fantasies of being shoveled into a mass grave.

alive.

..