What a Plane Day

I came home from work and saw GMP Defender spy plane circling where I live. I heard the turboprops as it did racetrack patterns going into clouds. I also saw a kid's balloon black on grey sky. Did Defender's camera pick it up?

Then I saw a second spy plane! A plastic Diamond DA42 prop plane. Hey, prop jets are more cool. Even crap Defender has them! You two came close in the clouds, almost playing chicken? Steady on lads. Is good Airmanship enough for safety? Your day camera and infra red will be compromised by the soup. Of course, there was no crash.

I was no longer sky bound. Till I saw a twin fin remote control demon screaming jet rip the sky apart. Awesome cool! Then a bent wing model F-4U Corsair chased a small red and white stunt plane. Bet you wish he was a Zero! Odd thing though, Corsair made no noise. An electric fully aerobatic plane?

All I need to see is the Goodyear blimp circling Man City football ground and a helicopter, preferably a Chinook and I'm content.

  

False Tits

You really think you’re something, in your red Ferrari 12 plate black top convertible, don’t you? I see you driving up the road where I live, in my deprived crap town. What do you want up here? Are you buying or renting a house on the cul-de-sac or just showing off your Italian car? Park it up here and it’ll be ashes by the morning. Do you own the car or rent it? You don’t drive fast, keeping it under thirty. What did you drive before? A push bike?

I did a double take, am I still living in fucking Essex mate? This ain’t Loughton High Street love. It’s a road in shithole, our deprived town. I see your dyed blond hair severely tied back, the stern look on you face giving nowt away.

Are you a street escort and looking for a secluded pad for your customers? My mate will have a session with you; he’s into that kind of stuff. Not my cup of tea, thank you very much. Are you charging Essex prices, a ton fifty a pop?

Of course, it’s fuck all to do with me. I just see you out of my window and do this poem about you. If all it seems is true, you’re tits will be plastic, your lips Botox, your arse toned from the gym where other plastic women go and your credit cards will be real. Paid for by daddy.

Is your old man a gangster or legit? Or do you work for charity and donate half your millionaire cash to a good cause? And not have a bad bone in your body? We’ll see how long you last in shithole. You see, we’re old timers here. You’re the new gal, all false tits and blond hair and a red car. An out of towner...

Tattoo Co-Operative

We work together my tattooists and me. New images spring forth out of my imagination. They have the means to create something out of nothing. Amazing arty designs forever on my skin. The girls love them and my mother hates them, way it is. Battle lines.

From tarot card designs by Pixie to Great War warplanes spitting death, my inkers do the best. Nothing else will do, no 2^nd place here when my upper body is nearly covered. Arms, legs, chest, stomach and back. My legs are next. A flaming comet drawn by Ruth.

I had my latest tattoos done by Wes at The Inkpot, Oldham. Only good thing in this mental town. My crazy butterflies on my chest. How it hurt, vodka and coke along with man flu Emla numbing cream hardly helped. Pain for art: Luftwaffe and RAF butterflies.

May to September, each week, I get a new tattoo. My bakery job pays for my ink. Fifty quid a pop. I don’t care, I work with Wes or Ginny and they do their art. A unique design is the result. The pain is often like a tip of pure crystal buy hey, art is born. All real.

What do I do when I run out of space? Grow a third arm or get a genetic body, allowing more coverage? My quest for artful tattoos is ongoing. Many different artists, many different tattoos; all high quality and each mine, to call my own. Decades of ink to go.

Ruth is on my arm, not as my Pagan Bride or intimate lover, no. But in our poem. It reads: ‘Flames are tears, tears are flames. Till the bitter end...’ Isn’t it amazing how a gal can inspire me so? More than art and emotions, what next? Ink this space...

YOUR LETTER

YOUR LETTER

Just your words on paper, nothing much,

random thoughts of daily life.

What if this was the last letter on earth?

Worth the world then or in my possession

if I was stranded far away on the moon

would your words be my lifeline and save me?

Or prolong my agony, make my stay there my Hell?

A curse or a blessing in my hands now.

Dancing with Joan Jett

Dancing close with Joan Jett is so wild, it’s 1988 and we go head to head. I’m the teen kid by the juke box and she is my wet dream in black leather, one foot in front of me. Pure bloody ecstasy. Garage music blares out of the speakers and we spin around, my arm catching her waist. Closer we draw; a kiss. First of many.

Joan and Nick. Who would have thought it? Rock n roll music heroine meets a Lancashire lad in an intimate spit and sawdust gig venue in a nameless town. It happened, was happening now. 25 July 1988. A day before I was seventeen.

By chance I got her gig ticket, last minute rush. Left my crap job and mental northern town and took the train to see Her, Joan Jett. My teen rock goddess singing live. How many guys wanted a piece of her? And a few gals too. Black leather, boots and an awfully short skirt...

And that black hair. Joan looked like a Goth. Her music wasn’t as dark and was more accessible. Darkness would come later, lots of it.

For now, I danced close with Joan Jett. My head in her hair, eyes shut. Holding her like there was no tomorrow. Another kiss and I was smitten. No one would ever believe me, if I told them: ‘Hey, I danced close with Joan Jett. And we kissed...’

Never mind what happened later... that’s our secret. Yes I still do love her, am in love...
...with Joan Jett.

Natalie. Politico

There was trouble in The Argentine. A few of Natalie’s friends spoke out against the military junta who ruled the country. The two girls and one boy, all aged eighteen, had simply vanished. Natalie was scared. Roberto warned her not to speak out. The same people who forced him into the army, ending his college studies, had apprehended the teens. Their fate was unknown and not good.

Nat was having none of this. She wrote a song, in Spanish, criticizing the government and asking where her friends were. At a live gig in a monastery town outside BA, her band did a gig and she sang that song. Other people were watching her. Her life and new air force career were in grave danger. Did Natalie know or care?

Natalie sang her song for her dear friends who were missing. It was no use going to the authorities, they were responsible! The message was clear. Don't speak out against the ruling junta. Was Nat actually on their side? Joining the air force and being a future tool for their use in any war with Chile over the border or even Britain on the Malvinas. Either thought scared her to death.

While on stage Nat briefly toyed with the idea of dropping out of her training. The fate of her friends deeply affected her; she could end up like them. Dead or missing. People in the audience never took their eyes off Nat. She had power here, real power. That was dangerous. A shady man by the bar also watched and waited. Nat cried and sang for her pals and all the other Disappeared. Was it really real? Teenagers going missing because they believed in freedom? The rest of Mayo's set passed in a haze of emotion. Two encores later, it was over.

Nat was drained and got a strong drink at bar. The man in black walked over and nodded at the girl. She looked back blankly.  Her eyes followed his hand as he opened his jacket. She saw a gun. The threat was clear. Don’t step out of line. He finished his beer and left the bar. Natalie was shaking now, frightened that They knew who she was and that she knew what was going on. Her song was proof of that. The barman served her drink and she downed it on one.

links to my book sites and profiles online where you can buy my books and read my work

links to my book sites and profiles online where you can buy my books and read my work

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/nickarmbrister

http://writeoutloud.net/profiles/nickarmbrister

http://nickarmbristerwriter.webs.com/

http://www.myspace.com/nickspoetrybooks

http://nickarmbrister.wordpress.com/

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=nick+armbrister&x=6&y=15

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Nick+Armbrister&x=11&y=8

http://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/nick-armbrister/id469211520?mt=11