Under the honeycrisp branches
I'm watching the dusk die.
The ore *******
of a glassy sphinx
are silvering the fall,
her wingy myth
is mounting the sky,
is smiling at me
as she passes by.
And I look at her, look at her
scanning her magical waltz
with desperate eyes,
while thinking, in a nocturne,
how unreachable
it's her tide.

High in the pearly tree
a crimson robin
is waving good bye.
~Hildegarda Ares

Time and I don't sit together
at the end of day readings
where the old head of god bobs very slightly as he peacefully writes
and reads at the same time
remembering everything in a log
talking so slowly for the words to kiss me and time.
We avoid the eyes in our faces though while
We explore our bond collecting in our foreheads
A straight line binds us across the wind in the air
Across the papers of words
between us
He doesn't like the clock hands stuck in me, off such wingy arms
that don't have enough room in my chest to click around
My clock is always waiting for a bigger wall, for its arms to spread
and the energy cycle of the little go in there is like a skirt that doesn't twist when you turn
no color splashing the air at each little movement
My wing arms need me to lift out most of the feathers and turn
And then it'd be a better clock than time
I don't like his viscious breathing, and the colors on his wall only dark grey and blue
At least my wall is red
But I want to be friends
I want to take his hand and let the minutes come, behind us
I don't want to push the future far away     with my eyes on the rug
my shoulders fallen without feathers to be free
Please don't shred my slow dance rolling towards god's arms for him to make it lighter
I wheel in pain while I bend my broken knees to turn, of all your torture
It's a weighty golden skirt from all the fire
Love me first, then tell me something wise
And lighter than the heavy turning to the sides you've designed
Sit next to me in the middle of the story Grandfather clock
Then we will both be looking forward
Listening to the book of the long
Opening the folded air of today, tomorrow, and the ones that made them
Writing with a clock hand, and an eternity pen
Giving to us what we wait for
Lifting our names to move and make a turn
Me and time making the parting between the pages and the hill of them,
for several walls of clocks
several scars
several backs of life
a central spine strong enough to dance to the beat of so many more pages

Loving
the hearts of angels breathe with yours
and it pulses with softness
made of their thrills

Loving
the wings of angles touch your mind
and it forgets all
flying into hopes
made of wingy illusion

Loving
the lips of angles kiss yours
and they don't rule themselves more
adored with the flavor
made in heaven

little robert corder was a really crazy person

he fought his father and mother and little brother

with all his might, you see he threw stumpd

and threatened yo **** his parents

and robert was suffering so ****** much

robert was really looking quite smug as he gave his family hell

like ever time he threw things at his family, his family were remotely scared of robert

and robert didn’t care, he just hung around with his mates talking about

how much he is having giving his family ****

and robert’s best mate tom said to robert

try and avoid hitting your family, you could end up in the nuthouse

and robert said, yeah, dude, but they are really driving me crazy

and when tom decided to go his separate ways and stop being robert’s friend

well he was a distant fried in yjr same city

roberts brother said, i am getting out of this stupid family problems and get married

and have kids and leave, he had two girls, which was what robert gave him as a little gift

and then robert’s mother and father tried to calm robert dow with medication, ya know enough

to make robert miss his favourite show, and force robert to sink into the chair

with a can of victoria bitter on his belly

and every time robert will try and be an adult, his rathe and mother will set the hose on him

and say good riddens to bad *******, yeah robert wasn’t really acting like an adult

saying in a little wingy voice, let me be like tom and the kids

and robert’s father said, if you want to be a kid, i will take you out of your sports team

and robert yelled at his father and mother saying I AM THE KING, I AM LIKE TOM

robert’s father said, no your not, your like me and your mother, you are not a young dude no more, robert

you gave us so much ****, and robert started to reform well with the new medication

but deep down he hated being on it, but it was making him into the man that robert’s parents wanted

and robert helped out at the homeless shelter, and he played santa claus which his parents disagreed with

because of robert’s violent temper could retaliate and hit a kid, because it was only a matter of time before

robert was going to stop taking the medication, but for a while robert became a gentle giant

yeah, he was a real pleasure to have around, yeah he drank coke, but that made him happy

but being gentle like that wasn’t really robert’s style, it made him look like a freak

and it was only a matter of time before the mental health doctors pick up on this

at first it was distant voices and then after a reduction of medication, the voices came closer to home

you see he started having weird delusions about working in outer space

and forcing his mates to work in outer space, to help rebuild lives up there

and after about 3 years, robert was as gentle as a freak, and the voice of tom was planted in his head

because robert’s sub conscious wanted him there for protection

and robert’s family wanted to forget about their little plan, because robert was very fat and gentle

and was getting teased on the street, and in clubs, so, robert wanted to change

and ge wrote so many stories, some nice and others not so nice

and one day robert bought a computer and read his stories, ALL HIS STORIES

on youtube, as well as post them on the writing web site

but after a while he was hearing tom’s voice louder and louder and

as he was on the medication, he got this awful nightmare where his family

wouldn’t leave him alone, every time he opened the door his brother was there saying

you are ****, you are a loser, and robert said don’t fight me, i am like tom now

and roberts family said, no your not, you are like us, now, man

and robert’s brother was running around robert saying, you are not like tom

robert said, tom was nicer to me that you guys were

and robert’s brother said, you are a ******* robbie

a real little *******, i wanted to have boys to tease you with them

and then robert said i hold out this sword and wave it a through times

and robert grabbed the sword off his crazy brother and his brother said you put us through hell

and now it’s time for revenge, where we stay outside your house forever, you can’t sleep you can’t eat

robert said, tom will protect me from you guys, and robert’s brother said no he can’t and your not like tom

and robert grabbed the sword off his brother and finished by throwing him out of his house

saying, i am on fucken medication, so leave me alone, his family said, wake up robert

and expect us in your next dream

in a dinosaur park of vinyl and quicksilver, talking:
music is the one area of gratification i can't be
pretentious about... if i have a critique of a music,
my critique rests upon the words:
i just don't listen to it.

i how people hate phil collins -
i love their dogmatic abhorrance
of him -
oh believe, i'm not a major fan:
i'm a major fan of people who
are pretentious enough
to despise decent pop music -
and given it's pop: well, its either
cotton candy - or *******
in terms of having no anti-bodies
to combat the viral infection of
immediate likeability -
it just comes with the music...
     no, i'm not a major phil collins
fan, i'm a major fan of the people
who despise him out of "principle"
that leads them to the music
circus of obscurity and indie-wingy;
but i dare say...
       what did peter gabriel after leaving
genesis?
          exactly what phil collins did
to *genesis: he made it accessible...
and when did jazz mingle with
prog rock? well... miles davis' *******
brew...
     never mind...
   fair enough, hate phil collins...
          i love it!
            but the album
                     no jacket required
is a stunner, as an album,
not for any particular song...
but lets face it...
   all the people who hate this take
on pop... can you imagine them
reading the most difficult (that's being
nice, it's actually just ****** tedious)
book ever written, i.e. thomas mann's
doctor faustus?
   i don't think so...
         that **** is harder to read than
kant!
             and i'm giving you a bet
with that: if you can finish
      that **** thing
you'll rescue von kleist from
the suicide pact he made
   with a terminally
ill woman and the despair of reading
kant's critique: that's a bet!
     no, whenever i hear the monkish
critique of phil collins...
  i think of listening
to early genesis, notably the album
foxtrot...
                    now i'd love to see these
critics listen to that album,
from beginning to the end...
                      by current standards
(namely albums, roughly going beyond
the threshold of sales, i.e.
                    the 30 minute mark)
one song off foxtrot could be a
classified as a e.p. in its own right -
      supper's ready -
        2 seconds short of 23minutes;
in all honesty, they don't have the *****
to listen to that track...
   i'd love to seem them try...
the minute they listen to it...
phil collins will seem like an ice-cream,
a quickie of receiving selfish oral ***...
trust me...
                 oh no, i'm not a major
phil collins fan, just came across his
out of nostalgia...
           but peter gabriel wasn't
exactly an angel when it came to his solo
career...
                 then again:
that song selling england by the pound:
now that's ******* prophetic these days...
who owns all the newly constructed
flats in london?
  foreign investors:
   chinese, arab, nigerian; you name it!