Shoreditch by the afternoon.

Dispatching from a day shared with friends our hero, (me), walked via the dusty old church, through the gardens of shelter for the drunk and homeless, past the trumped up parking space behind the common ground of plant seed and definitely no where near any Angels our man took to the direction of the Market beyond Hoxton that swears by it's youth culture and Artistic violation upon Britons Mis-en-scene.

Our Media modelling muse spat's to there pavement moved in an uncontrollable fashion moon-walking the mornings misunderstandings of the city, all around him he noticed folks agreeing about what he deemed to be illogical, trivial and far from the point of what most English day's usually consist of.

To be Frank he found the invisible sounds of hospitality only in-and around the Hackney area of London's east suburbia. Needless to say the topic of our adventure begins with the appeal from the most untoward scruffy yet logical conversation that I'd personally ever read indelibly upon the vial of a screen called the Net. Not the government approved version, that seemed to seldom reveal the truth about it's leaders or even ever actually do any provisional duties alone, no... These scrolls of time not so long ago, simply spoke about the truth of Angels, Aura's Anger and trickery of the mind.

Like all good apparitions she was real, you could see the curls of her hair and guess from the bags around the side of her nose the late nights she'd exposed her self in London's Nocturnal central Shoreditch cafe's and boom bars. She said she was an artist and I asked her if she'd entered the burner competition down the road in the smokiest cafe still in existence but she just simply deferred the question and cried 'I SEE ANGELS' I paint Angels for the Big Catholics church, I make money from Angels, I've travelled thanks to the help of my skill and now I'm on my way to sell my wares.

But she also told me of her abstaining from begging cash or affecting anyone else's vices, I smiled and agreed but she seemed to frown enthusiastically although somehow shatteringly, so I asked her about my angels " Do I have One on each shoulder? " Then " Are some angels evil?" but finally digressed in don't you work at Homerton Hospital to which to all she replied with a shake of her head and an enthusiastic trinkle inside the retina as all women with spirit do.
That day I felt a missing void when I immediately equated her with poverty and every other beggar around Shoreditch, but it ‘twas only later that a realisation came to play around Angels.

When you bring up the topic; you better be able to back up the idea with willingness and an open heart, for I knew a good invitation when I'd seen one. But the truth is I'd never seen humans with real wings flying, apart from the T.V and church analogies obviously protecting my invisible ideals of Metaphysical studying and Ideologies made me sane enough to share about this topic, but...

How many minds make emptiness

Fellowship fights at famished family’s regurgitating lost knowledge Medium man walks this channel of despair and pity’s global villager Gates to sit upon and look below through corn sticks upon accent Country bumpkins develop a city of missing idea’s middlemen




Baiting the collective conscious into repute, remaining original
Tackling feathered problems sharing his box of worms, grubs,
Creatures canonised as imperial problems fall fast on outskirts
Trimming the humanities and reminded the lords leaders



Dealing the-days-death a brochure advertising sun worship.
Moving food across continents as the voice projects a room
Echoing hunger, deprived kitchens waiting to be cleaned,
Kitchens slaving over the singular menu, recipes of disaster



Sunday’s seem to televise comical anecdotes of soap or food
Often avoiding the squires scallop phonology hiding dusty pearls
Silenced in the country’s vibrant siding of soiled fences
Fighting for city’s land architecture and empty security fields



Mussels waiting to feel the strain of wine and false sauces
Quoted by lost knowledge and youth that create language
Man becomes lost in a time of trivial fossils recorded in life,
Bibliography of a man a quiz show or a village full of idiots

Something seemed missing on departing from the girl, who's name I needn’t mention, not to name or shame nor that a name even matters, it's the charactuire of every Angel that may give some hint of it's power. And it was only later back in my new council flat North of Shoreditch I realised no matter how nocturnal I wish I was or that even getting in touch with any dreams. (like Freud or Watkins did) that Is still look the same in the mirror as long as I did a few simple things, angels change so why should we.

I thought once that film where that hero plucked out his feathers; John Travolta. that's it! But then I realised his ulterior motives he loved a women, she was pretty and intelligent, but am sure there was a bit when she played the broken sparrow role and the death of John prepared her for walking again North Central in that American City yes she was a Jay Walker I think, any way that lady back in Hoxton's Shoreditch on Sunday afternoon never really did say any names or traits of an Angel but interestingly she had conviction in her eyes, but still with all them angels she had that common conviction we all share in the city and that's loneliness.