Wednesday, 31 October 2012

Blue Town

Blue Town

I've still got the blues from this damn town I live in.
Till a big blue sky falls down, squashing it dead.
Got the blues no, plain sailing baby.
Where we go from here is anyone's guess.
Gas up our car and head south, you by my side.
Got the blues no more baby.
At least till you fly away and find someone new.
Then my blues return and I'll have the blues again,
in another nameless, faceless town.
Then my blues start again till I find a new baby.
One that will stay by my side and share my blues,
her blues mixed with mine.
Hey baby we've got the blues together.
No need to keep running our blues stop here.
Until the dark grey sky falls down and we're blue again, babe of mine.
Stormy times are to be endured together,
as are the blues in a bad town my dear.
Wish the blues away, clear skies are ahead baby.
Stand by me now.

Sunday, 28 October 2012

Mind Men

Mind Men

Men with brilliant minds fought a war in the ether, fighting an invisible war.
Using maths to crack enemy codes of unbelievable complexity.
Making sure they were never found out.
Enigma and Lorenz were cracked by pure brain power.
Mathematics being the power of intelligence, enemy codes saying everything.
Hidden no more.
Lists of army units and air force orders of battles.
Giving us an ability to forewarn our allies of impending attacks.
To defeat him and win the war.
Misplaced Nazi faith in machines when people were not trusted led to their end.
Paranoia and eventual defeat waiting in the wings.
Our brilliant minds made a new invention, a computer!
Colossus.
Still in use in the sixties.
Against the Russians.
Our great minds and machines fought a new war of silence in the Cold War.
Russian ally turned new enemy.
For decades our top minds were ordered to keep silent.
But now we know part of their story, secrecy partly lifted.
Without our Bletchley Park code breakers how many lives would have been lost?

Thursday, 25 October 2012

Sandstone and Granite

Sandstone and Granite

She is my flickering candle flame in ultimate darkness, threatening to go out.
When her light dies, mine also dies.
For then I'll welcome oblivion with open arms, be engulfed by it.

She doesn't know what she has awakened within me.
I'm almost unable to comprehend it, utterly terrified of what could become.
Her words can soothe me, journeying within my soul, or they destabilise me, slicing me like a dark energy spear.

Been here before, simply refuse to go through that again, American Goth lady murdering me by silence.
Fragments of her still haunt me, for I still care.

Will she be merciful and allow us to become two candle flames?
For two burn more brightly than just one, alone.

Will a hurricane shatter us before there can be an 'us'? 
What happens if an 'event' occurs?
Stealing one of us away, leaving the other forsaken in the darkness.
To perish alone.

Ultimate sin would surely follow, if I was abandoned again.
Let her love heal me, save me from me, in a new beginning.

For I believe in her and hope.
And in myself and us.









Tuesday, 23 October 2012

ACRONYM

ACRONYM

An acronym for this, an acronym for that.
RTA, road traffic accident, metal meat grinder
crushing pulping raw red flesh.
Watch the skies and blink twice, was that a UFO?
See the little green men loop their unidentified flying object,
of course you imagined it.
You should feel safe protected by NATO
from the enemy whoever he is.
Yet there is no Soviet Union, so do we need
the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation?
To organise what exactly?
Pick your own acronym, flashy or boring,
the choice is yours.


Friday, 19 October 2012

Seelowe

Seelowe

Strudel Stollen Stuka time. We eat our cake on the Heights above the village. As the Soviets come into our big gun range, we wait. We'll bide our time and tear them a new hole.
Seelowe Heights New Year 1945.
Nothing has been like this before. It's that battle, two opposing power blocks. After this fight, this won't be over. A new world order. We aim our guns; 105 and 155s and our trusty 88s.
One hundred thousand SS troops waiting for Ivan. It will be quite a tear up. Kalashnikov meeting Schmeisser, Nebelwerfer meeting Katyusha. What side would you like to be on, win or lose?
Or treat it like a game, replay it time and again. Let Fascist Nazis win and then Communist Sovets. Playing with men’s lives like a cat toying with a mouse.
Soon it will start.
No more eating Stollen or Strudel cake. Our Stukas fly over head. Come on lads, pick up your guns and charge your shells. It's time!
War on the Seelowe Heights.



Berlin Tokyo Warhearts book...

Berlin Tokyo Warhearts book...

http://www.amazon.com/Berlin-Tokyo-Warhearts-Nick-Armbrister/dp/1471713040

Berlin Tokyo War Hearts is Nick Armbrister's new poetry book. Various events inspired this book: the tragic death of a precious lady called Lynette; study of the Falklands/Malvinas War; and Nick's journey through life. Nick's new work is published here for the first time in a collection. Both creative and dark, it includes Nick's Natalie series of poems that follow the journey of an Argentine Air Force pilot, Natalie, through battle and peace. Other work includes musical and aeroplane themed pieces. Nick wanted to create something beautiful. Did he succeed and keep darkness hidden?

Sunday, 14 October 2012

preview of new poems from my forthcoming 2012 poem book...

Dead Man

The dead man sits on his sofa and watches TV
in his East German tower block apartment.
Cash in the bank pays his bills, no eviction notice here.
What was once a real person is a mummified corpse, all wrinkled and shrunken.
For three years he's been like this, a TV critic.
Bored fucking shitless, dead.
From soaps to films, he's endured them all.
No neighbours check up on him. Police state mentality persists.
If you've no reason to go there, don't!

No one robs his place, who wants to rob from an old man?
Now dead. But no one knows.
Three years passed before TV man was found.
A workman needed to check the plumbing.
He broke the door in and got the shock of his life!
A desiccated corpse smiled grimly at him.
The TV blared incessantly, mindless crap bending the mind of a dead man.
Did the repair man wish the corpse had a weekly electric meter
and not a bank payment scheme?
He called it in and the dead TV man became a celebrity,
albeit a dead one, all alone.
Forgotten.

Game 

In the game of life
and equation of fate,
what were the chances?
You took my mates...
What will you take next?
My life?

Butt

They met
at the
back end
of never.

Glad

I’m glad the bitch fucked you off after two decades of shit.
You turned out to be a crap mate, who stabbed me in the back,
breaking my trust.

And my left leg.

It was me who burnt your ten grand car out, my revenge.
I celebrate the break up of your silly friendship, originally off my back.
You dared to love her for twenty years, look how she repaid you.

Fucking you off.

Don’t you see? I’m always right.
Now you don’t hire a pick up truck to move her junk to the next state.

Did you really break all contact or do you still masturbate over her bulbous bust?
If you nock on my door, I’ll shove my twelve gauge in your face.
Take a hike pal and get a life.
You lonely middle aged old man, in love with an ex friend.

Fool.

Fall Ball

The guy and gal got it on too soon.
Her ex was there, a real cunt.
New guy had words, would fuck him up bad if war erupted.

Peace. For now.

Guy and gal fucked like rabbits.
She moaned that he moaned; you fuck me too hard!

He didn’t like her friendship with number two guy,
a bit too close. And he does like you.

She ended up single, giving him orders.
They fell like a lead balloon. Kaput.
He fucked her off and dated her sister.

A baby is on the way.

“Sir, they hit the wrong town”

Ruth was concerned. Spitfire recon photos were the problem. Not the quality but something else. The target, it was wrong. Its street plan was different. Buildings, or what were once buildings, were different. What was wrong? Ruth thought. Do what thy will be the whole of the law. Do it right or it’s a cock up! What have our boys done?
She called her superior officer over. Quietly Ruth raised her concern and he looked closely through the stereoscopic eye glass at the post bombing pic.
“Strewth! You’re right. A right cock up. They hit the wrong bloody town. It’s not Munich. This is bad.
Ruth glanced up with wide intelligent questioning eyes. She looked very pretty in her WAAF uniform, with hair tied back and young features.
“As you sow, so shall you reap,” muttered her officer. Did it matter where the enemy was hit? As long as we bombed them. Our revenge for Coventry, London and a score more. Our Lancasters were pulverizing Germany. Bomber Harris had unleashed his whirlwind, silencing the Luftwaffe’s wind with extreme violence.
An urgent investigation needed to be carried out. It was the wrong target. A new raid would be needed...

Friday, 12 October 2012

Shithole Oldham

Shithole Oldham

Why is my town such a hostile fucking town?
All these years on my own in a dying northern town.

Seeing it die.

Shops closing, businesses going bust,
people being murdered,
dealers pushing dope.
What a nice place.

Do you have to be a cunt to live here?
Do I need to have the attitude of a Nazi to survive?
Smash my enemies up with no fucking mercy,
no quarter given?

I fear that my town will make me like that,
destroy my last bit of innocence.
Like a tank crushing a rose.

Obliterated.

What will become of me?
My final human footprint will be bigger than most.
You see,
I'm a writer and put my thoughts on paper to share with this evil town and perilous world.

I don't care for tomorrow nor does my town care for me.
Single for years,
so spiteful are local gals.
No job for years,
recession was invented here.

Many drink or commit suicide to escape, so sad.
No cinema or glitzy clubs here.
Darkness and despair.
Wish I could list a dozen positive points;
I can't.

Can you dear reader?
Oldham, shithole northern town.

Thursday, 11 October 2012

YEARS GO BY

YEARS GO BY

The years go by as I live my life, joy fills my heart, me,
as I think of you, of the times we had and the bands we saw.
Now you’re gone, pain fills my head, me, as I realise that you
were the one, not any more. Contrasting emotions and images
welling up inside me, confusing my brain as another failed encounter
fills my being, taking me to the depths.
Can we still be friends without the devastating pain destroying even that?
We had something and we let it all slip away, to nothing.
I’ve been from girl to girl, cant break the habit wanting them to be you.
You met Mr Wrong to fill the gap left by me,
he gives you security but do you miss being in love?

Monday, 8 October 2012

older poems

YOU AND YOUR OWN EXISTANCE

You are your own boss, you can do what you want and no one will know any different,
abuse your body, colour it with ink, pierce it in a dozen places, drink till you pass out, do drugs till you lose your mind.
Many people will call this madness but many call it life, enjoyment. Condemn it or embrace it, we do what we want, when we want.
It’s completely up to you what you do but only I can abuse my own body,
only I can fill my skin with tattooed pictures.
I have just the one body so I’ll take care of it.
Many fall by the wayside in their hard journey, some end up in the gutter, some are
fucked in the head; me, I’d rather be me and have my fun and laughs, take my chance on my perilous way.

 


TELEPHONE  SURREALITY

Three colours of grey all flowing into one to make a crazy dance of colour direct from the plastic mould.
Now assembled into such a frightening thing, the instrument of love, life and death.
Multiple square bumps all placed in rows like so many stationary soldiers each with a sharply made out symbol.
A long coiling snakelike wire brings life-giving electricity, a curved hand piece that bridges the gap from infinity to infinity in a second.
This is the telephone, such a small and menacing thing just waiting to pounce.
It exists in a world of numbers, each one a connected to a billion people all real or imaginary in this telephone surreality.


STONE

Cold to the touch and as old as time itself, the eons fall by the wayside as the dawns come and go just like rain falling from the sky.
Just now like before things are changing, constantly, forever more.
Nothing stays the same – even the rocks and stones are worn away,
ground away until only sand remains.
Time defeats everything from the dinosaurs to the ice age.
Will mankind go the same way or will he flee to the stars as our planet turns to dust?


FLOWING

Swiftly turning and rolling down the pipe the water heads to oblivion.
It was clear before, but now it is dirty and brackish, full of soap and grease.
What a life it has and what abuse it takes, day in, day out.
We take it for granted as the years flow through our lives like water down the drain.
Look at the lake where the water is clear and as smooth as glass; there is a beauty too
in a manmade reservoir, a million tons of liquid held back by a bit of flimsy concrete.
Water on the move can be slow and lazy or a crazy raging torrent on a race to go nowhere.
Wouldn’t you like to be water being around forever and as lazy as you want to be?

VIRUS

Walking through the swamp watching the mosquitoes fly by, all part of their own eco system, makes me aware that I am so different from them.
Now after leaving that stifling hot country I feel quite ill.
My vision starts to blur and the pains in my head are so bad.
I know I shouldn’t have gone into the swamp but it’s too late now,
I ask God to help me but my pleas aren’t heard.
Maybe I’m dying but who am I to say?
Sleep is coming to me now, ever so slowly.
Perhaps I’ll wake up and be better – or perhaps I’ll die in peace.


Saturday, 6 October 2012

war poems

Norwegian Hills

Back in 2004 two men met. A unique meeting then, in that year. Yet the event that led up to that meeting, the actual cause, was something else. Do I call it majestic? No.
YOU decide what to call it.
A burning Halifax bomber fell in flames between two hills. Two or three engines on fire. What happened to the other six men? Raped by Nazi gunfire. So many lost, dead.
I wish I could see the scene the Norwegian man saw. Or not. Did he pull the sole English survivor out of the wreckage?
NORWAY MY HOME.
So much war. Not Vikings or myth but real. Burning RAF bomber fell between two hills. Where are the men? Only one was there in 2004, with his saviour. Does he miss his mates? Where are his pals? Still in the charred bomber?

There Are Two

In our world there are two wars. Both are equally deadly. Casualties and deaths are enormous. Our soldiers are at war all over the world, campaigns in Iraq, Afghan, Libya and more. Insurgent bullets claim some, IEDs others. Young people serving their country, often paying the highest price.
The second war is even more devastating and knows no geographical boundaries, the whole world. Lives are stolen like Lynette Hammond's life by her selfish boyfriend when he drink drove them to oblivion.
Is anyone innocent?
Look at my mad past. I created casualties of war by my angry drunken actions, married no more. Pints of beer are like bullets, have one more and drive your car.
Do drugs?
Fancy a knockout spliff, like a grenade. Bang goes your mind. Onto Class A, rob and murder a pensioner to pay for your dirty habit. Will you OD or do bird? More war casualties on our streets.
How many soldiers end up in both wars? Flashbacks leading to mind collapse, war without end. I ask why?

Hurri

Been up to see the Hurricane crashes at Tintwistle. Heather covered black hillside, treacherous rocks to snap a leg, somewhere hides the wreckage. Oh don't you know I went too far. Ended up at the quarry. Those rock faces are something.

I stumbled thru wicked undergrowth and climbed the hill. This way and that led me to the memorial cross to the three lost pilots. I paid my respects. Looking on Google, I saw where the crash was.

Over the wire, I found it in a few minutes. Smashed alloy and bent pipes. My poppy is now amongst the bits that belong to three Hurricane fighters. Last resting place of three brave pilots, killed before they lived their young lives.

It was nearly thirty years ago when I was there before. I was just a kid. I promise to go there soon.

Flames are tears. Tears are flames, till the bitter end.

Belgrade

Broken warplane falls wreathed in smoke.
Me with two German bullets in my chest.
How it hurts.
Funny how I feel alive right now, before I die.
Was I dead when we met?
Something precious died inside when you left me.
So I joined the air force and became a pilot.
People feted me wherever I went.
Don’t you know I shot two Huns down?
Then number three got me.
Good and proper in his bull’s eye.
Sorry my dear wife, I won’t be coming home.
I fall down in a burning fighter plane near Belgrade.
I died for you and our Motherland my love.
Let Marshal Tito be proud of me.
Sincerely love me my dear wife,
I’m sorry we fought and you left...

And There Were Three

Late mark Griffon engine Spitfire is sliced apart by German gunfire. Defeat! Spit pilot takes to the silk and bails. He saw his executioner executed. Swift justice handed out by a Tempest. No one said the Salamander was in service.
Volksjager peoples’ fighter, for everyone but only flown by the best, killed a Spitfire before  a Tempest killed him. Did the Nazi pilot perish? Unlike the Spit pilot? Eyewitness to his own shoot down. Advanced air war 1945, Armageddon beckons.
Enough! Time for a coffee and some biscuits, teen combat pilot dreams aside. I close my book and go to make a brew. No decaf for me. Need my caffeine before I battle the Luftwaffe in turbulent European skies. Shame I’ve no beer!
Never mind about being there, seeing history made. German jet genesis, almost mastering state of the art piston engine fighters. Back to my book. At 17 my mates were out chasing girls, I was in the skies.

Dying Pretty

Why now do I look at the Tupolev 160 White Swan and Rockwell B-1B bombers in a new light? Taken aback at how pretty both jet bombers are. Their World War3 mission is a dark job, end of days stuff. Not to be taken lightly, unless you're Dr Strangelove.

Less people die when the American B-1 goes to conventional war. Her nuclear mission is taken over by the B-52 and B-2. Soviet Russia built a design masterpiece by ripping off the B-1, just like they did with Concorde with their Tu-144. Cool jet planes, better than our Western counterparts? Just as cool.

Imagine if the White Swan and Lancer were used in humankind's last battle and that the nuclear mission was given back to the B-1. Each jet carrying twenty four nuclear freefall bombs, one megaton apiece. One million dead per bomb, city killers.

The Russian jets are named after famous pilots. I asked Tupolev why not call one Lilya Litvyak? A lady who I'd like to meet. What she achieved is rather special. See the two swing wing bombers as works of art.

Art not war.


Monday, 1 October 2012

Road to Damascus

Road to Damascus

This historical and bloody road to the holy city is paved with bloody footsteps.
So many died over two millennia.
Nearly thirty thousand more have been added to the Damascus Road.
All dead, killed by ultra violence.
Syrians murdering Syrians.
When will it finally stop?
In another two millennia or when they're all dead?
Bloody Damascus Road in a ruined country.