In the internal recovery
externals discover me,
uncover and hover about me,
like angels,
but why would that bother me?

I hear wings that flutter about me,
thought it
could be my heart
but it can't be.

In my mending I am fending off demons.
The angels defend me against those that would send me
screaming back to the pit.

There are bits of me lost,
friends tossed aside and my
memories sometimes
hide far away.

I am spread out quite thin,
I think thin
gets me in and
I am poor, so I'm sure
that helps me a lot.

What did I get from this lifetime as yet,
not understood?
Some bad
some good
If I could remember
I would.

No moral to this tale where morals always failed me and my dreams of dreams derailed me,
when the pious tried to bail me
I said,
'let me go to jail' and
Jail is where I am,
the jail that jails a man
inside himself.

It’s as though Filey Bay with its east-facing rifts and cliffs were visible;
as though the full-bodied gusts that blow over it, freighted with lift, sea thermals and the bloated bodies of over-ripe chimps, were thermals, sideways tracking and printed with spirals that mark a slow convergence of warm and nutrient-rich, cold air.

What rides this marriage of elements
does so with a paragliding wingspan
hammered from great distances,
its leading edge containing worn emblems and fading lines, such as might be found within the pages of a flight log from a time when travel was slow, when destinations involved a leaving of land based friends and tidal lines while crossing of Bay of Filey.

Soaring and gliding are this flying chimps only reasons, in all type of weathers and seasons cold, for flight. Reighton in from the south, it angles away and down, almost wetting the tip of his leeward wing before braking alternative, for upswell of Ian's wing, missing the cliff and sampling his own reflection, where he brays a holler, from missing Micks tree, so this long-range survivor.

And when, after days of gliding, its Ians bones take on the ache of flying high above sea, Ian will follow a fellow wing, inspecting it for a fellow chimp pilot, a friend or foe, for anything upon which to follow.

To find a paragliding mate, the female paragliders gather on barren Speeton cliffs surrounded by suitors, each one expectant and competitive in the sleek, highly coloured wings of their kind.

Flying chimps having found each other, they remain at the centre of flying weather cycles, expecting to fly, remain in company and lack separation for up to eighty years (Eighty YEARS!), despite some absences, despite their differences.

See them coming in – multicoloured gliders with harness gear and boots that paddle for purchase on the stones of slippery landings and wet beaches where their paragliding friends are waiting, alike
and yet unique, their singular wants and call to flying, dividing a raucous field with welcome.

One paragliding want. One life, together. And for every chimp that crashes and breaks under terrible weather, a fledgling pilot will emerge to test his wings and stand its ground after 2 long weeks training, and then leave the paragliding school to circle the globe, solitary in its preparations for flight, #Ianthechimps flying in thermic air made manifest in his I love to fly chimp brain.

All about a term, it spoke of something very scientific and laboratory, and also something unrooted; romanticism, with sensitive tentacles.
I can already carry touching and beautiful phrases, praise, and embellish a living being.

The adjacent voice ...: Fool you will continue to the point of knowing yourself more foolish under your coefficient, and you will slowly know the lack of reach of your emotions ...!

Ludwig ...: I'm a good man, who doesn't put away bad things ... of course that's how it works. But I want to talk and talk, and I only know that the aeroform, the earthly and cave, the watery, perhaps diluvian, advising me by Deucalion, will make it possible for the answers to be answered to the void, to the mortal body and void at the same time; that only in his bony system does knowledge make us palpitate. Clumsy and dumb he was after everything got dark in that deluge of days. In this way, he was able to dominate himself by summoning his rebirth.

The Dream of Morals

“Night owl, with your hands in pockets you have to lean on the tubular celestial mountains. you will walk with your insanity covered in your zoomorphic legions. Antoinette, whole beauty will walk near your domain, catching your memory and her admirable gestures will dilute your ignorance. But get up, even if it is groping and in the midst of perdition, look for your Archangel, she goes to pinch his feathery navigation in the infinity of the Universe.

Oh, restless night how you want to see yourself on the path of the finite front and not in the infinite of the proximal Apocalypse. When the comfort of the field delays us, do not sit in front of me on the grass. Unnourished starvation, Bread, and Water that does not carry healing minerals. You have to suffer greater suffering than the great elements, wailing water from the Red Sea in its feverish situation. Behold, there is no prolific thermic, only igneous tongues of a monumental melting ***; that has to support you in the aeroform and will make you mourn your last hardships, on the rough and brick-like Earth. The great everything, what loves it, what leads it to cover itself with sharp impious pleasures, has to re-enter into nothingness, and you go to them adorning the new architecture of your Ecological City. Do not refuse to forget the past, since the present without it does not green the transit of your new home.

Grass and flowers, polar ship, loaded with hopes, will shelter your disharmonized meekness. Platonic and judicious to spell ...., On the front sidewalk, you will find your sanity! " At the end of Moral's dream, her wrinkled flesh emigrated, which after so much staying in the Lake was abandoned, looking for a new body to inhabit.

Before the imminent approach of the End, a form of Angel approaches ... :( This was seconded by Roberto Garroch).

"You will fall prostrate to me ... do not keep the secrets where we have taken you, since on Patmos John fell before me ..., you in the vicinity of Patmos will flee from your filigree and energetic being to the Messolonghi Cemetery ..."

Free flight is freedom in its purest form,
To cloud play with must to avoid storm.
To roll, glide, dive, spiral and avoid spin,
To feel the scream that swells within.

Climb thermals, leave the earth, troubles and fly,
Know thermic air warmth of a clear spring sky.
Back to ground at the end of a day,
Tensions, stress and worries which have melted away.

Should my terminal come while I am in flight,
Sky clear, rain or darkest blight;
Your unwanted pity, I shrug off the pain.
My knowledge is secure that I'd do it again.

For each paraglider pilot was created to fly,
Gravity, earth and water defy.
And within me I know, I was born to soar,
With life, to live, to fly and restore.

What a plan, to fly, to paraglide, to leave the land and soar like a bird.

What a plan, to travel along cliffs, to climb thermic air, to aim at the horizon and spy lesser birds far below.

What a plan, to land where chosen, to pack away, to smile ear to chimp ear and walk head held high.

What a plan, to give grace to others, others who have kissed a train, untwisted tight lines and still laugh at the spectacle.

What a plan, to look back, laugh at knocks, unpick decisions and live to fly another day.

What a plan, spite and bad feeling behold, may the flying go flying and ignite that paragliding feeling.

What a plan ...