BLUSHES AND REVULSION...

Dark Angels will fan you with a worn and tired leather wing. Their calloused stick thin fingers will trail along your skin, sending blushes and revulsion in equal measure across neck, shoulder, thigh. Their stumped feet will dance a shuffle, a rhythm, a refrain - drums from old days and new. Prayers are cast and spells are set, books are written then burnt, their ashes floating in the wind like cascades of grey ephemeral moths, moths with wings that crack with thunder, that stagger and bristle with pain. Vows and mumbles, sigils and scars, dark angels roll up their skirts and open their thighs. They smile and slaver, tongues lolling on chin and cheek, tongues slick with promise and empty content. You lower your eyes and their thighs quiver, you raise your eyes and their lips pucker. Nightmares and promises, angels section off life and its living - stories to be told and untold, but all you can smell is old sex and piss, and all you can hear is the laboured flap of old, tired leather wings.