SUPERSONIC GROUND RACE

SUPERSONIC GROUND RACE

 

Countdown has begun as a crazy driver gets ready to go.

It’s a race over the desert to reach Mach 1.

As he sets off g-force increases and a silver dot shoots

over the ground trailing dust. In a second

he has gone a mile reaching 600mph.

With a bang he careers through the sound barrier

ending up a dot on the horizon.

Yes, he has done it, the fastest man on earth.

 

Juniper’s Daughter: War Is Obsolete – Futility and Hope by nick armbrister on amazon

X Marks the Spot 

   I went to the pub one night and met a stranger I’d never seen before; he told me an amazing story. I’m unsure if it’s true but I’ll share it with you anyhow, what an interesting tale it is. It was a Tuesday night in my boring crap town and I had been to a friend to watch her Tristania DVD because I’d never seen one before and I really enjoyed it. Taking my time I walked to the pub, one whose name I forget – never did I think a random pub could have such an effect on me! I ordered my beer and stood by the bar thinking when I was aware of another man next to me. A gruff voice spoke. It wasn’t this which took me by surprise but his American accent. What was a yank doing near Manchester? I soon found out. He introduced himself as Bubba and said it wasn’t his real name but a nickname his old squadron mates called him due to his love of burgers. I rolled my eyes and thought really? I replied I’m Nick and it’s nice to meet you. He finished his pint of beer and ordered a new one, then changed his mind and ordered two. Was one for me? Yes it was, he placed the second beer before me without asking if I drank Tetley’s or wanted it but I accepted. Never turn down free beer! I finished my first drink and nodded in thanks. Bubba said to me, “Well son, your English beer is not like our American beer. We serve ours cold and yours is warm!”

   “Erm… it’s the way it is,” was all I managed to reply.

   “Is that so son?” laughed Bubba rocking back and forth on the stool he had recently sat upon, almost falling off.

   “Yes mate it is,” I commented, a little annoyed. Are all Americans like this I thought?

   “What about your women, what are they like then? Warm or cold?” he guffawed, definitely enjoying himself. Was this some test to win my trust to see me if I was suitable for his company? I decided to leave, parting with one across his bow first.

   “I’ll tell you about English women. They take no crap from anyone including people from across the pond, they are the warmest and kindest going but their trust has to be earned and cross them, you’d wish you were never born. In your case you’d be totally outclassed, they don’t go for bullshit! It takes a man like me to handle them,” I lectured the yank as I took a huge drink from the pint he bought me. His reply was quite candid considering what I said to him.

   “Really… that’s quite a speech. You’d be good in Congress. You ever thought of being a Democrat? Let me tell you MY story. Do you like airplanes?”

   “Yes I do actually. Why was you a pilot or did you make them?”  I asked, my annoyance bordering on hostility now forgotten.

   “I was a pilot. I flew an “X” plane in combat. That’s X for experimental. We put guns and missiles on them, it was quite a time I can tell you,” Bubba quietly explained, his eyes wide in wonder.

   “For real? You were a pilot? A fighter pilot in the Air Force?” I asked, interested now.

   “Yes, I was a fighter pilot but not regular Air Force, we were a secret organisation all very hush hush as I believe you Brits say it.”

   “What did you fly and where did you serve?”

   “I flew an X-3, a white pointy high speed jet called the Stiletto, she was made by Douglas. We put a gun in the nose and two Sidewinders on the wings,” Bubba slowly explained taking a supp from his pint, “those were the best days of my life I can tell you!”

   “I’ve never met a pilot before so I’m not sure what to say. Well done?” I commented, unsure of myself. What do you say to someone who has done something that you’ll never do yourself?

   “Yes indeed. And the remarkable thing is I never wanted to do it, to fly for them or be there. Let me just say they twisted my arm and I went along with them. Thing is they were right, it was a great time, all top secret but I trust you my friend.”

   “You have my word I won’t tell anyone Bubba. No one would believe me anyhow and that’s the truth, no one believed me when I said I was seeing a tattooed model. They just laughed at me. So your secret is safe with me,” I quietly replied, remembering my embarrassment when I confided in a so-called mate that I was seeing a sexy top model from a tattoo magazine three summers back. I promised never to say anything again to anyone after that.

   “She must have been a sexy nice woman to see you. Don’t let people talk down to you or put you down,” Bubba firmly said to me. I nodded.

   “Anyhow back to my story. Our jets were designed for speed and height in mind, not for combat and war, so we had to modify them. For example, my jet which was called an X-3, was modified to give the engines more power and my plane a greater top speed, even when carrying weapons,” he continued, frowning while he remembered the details from decades ago.

   I finished my beer and got the barmaid’s attention and ordered two more pints, Bubba could have the same as me. I paid for the drinks and passed one to my new friend.

   He thanked me and continued, “She was the prettiest airplane ever built, like a needle with a deadly sharp tip and a slim streamlined body and not a bit of drag anywhere. Her wings were short and thin with a small tail plane and two engines. We never got the power we should have from her engines even with afterburner, so we rigged up a water system in the nose where the test equipment had been to feed water into the engines when we had max power to give more thrust. Some planes use that at take off to get more power and save fuel. That was my idea. My mates wanted to put a rocket engine in the back but I said no, she’s my jet and I say the water will be fine. I got an extra sixty miles an hour at military power to take me supersonic, rather than transonic. With normal power she only did seven hundred straight and level but in a dive with burners lit she was way past the Mach. My mates had several other jets and they modified them in their own ways, like we did with our hot rods. I tell you son, it was quite a time! All we needed was a war.”

DESERT CLASH

 

A murky dust laden night gives way to a searing

hot day over the barren desert.

Sun glints off metal many miles away

as aerial knights rise to do battle.

The Tigersharks get ready to fight

the Eagles in the coming battle.

Suddenly it starts as missile trails

dance through the sky and jets

leave contrails in the humid upper air.

A flash registers a hit as a plane dies,

immortality now gained.

It’s an air war like no other

because the price is the world

as forces of good battle against Lucifer’s evil.

If we lose then our planet falls into death and

anarchy.

 

 

 

written under my new pen name JIMMY SEMTEX...

written under my new pen name JIMMY SEMTEX...

I'm Me
I was walking thru Oldham Shithole town centre when a street seller said to me,
'Hi Sir...'
That's as far as he got.
I replied, Don't call me Sir.
Why? he asked.
I don't like it. Call me, Mate. Not Sir. I explained I'm not upper middle class like the ruling 2% cunts running our country and fucking it all up.
Now take it from me, I really don't like being called Sir. I take offence. Like if you called me a cunt or bastard. So the street seller was told in no uncertain terms.
The silly twat was selling something useless, doing a mug's job. I wasn't interested in what he was selling or buying it off him. They're only after my cash. He can fuck off, the muppet. I'm no mug and not signing up for Energy Electric or direct debits to put me in debt from corrupt money grabbing bastards.
Fuck them and the street sellers who call me Sir.
I'm me.

Moving Marble

You're like a marble rolling about in a steel bowl.

Wanting to be in one place and ending up in another.

You're the same with girls.

Never still long enough to appreciate just one.

The man lives behind a garage and lives out of a suitcase,

sleeping rough and eating bird seed.

Why another universe when you can go to another dimension?

Your ex, Dawn, climbed aboard your motor and took a dump on the windscreen.

You did blow her out and wed her mother.

Sometimes you wanna turn off your emotions.

It's a bullet in the head and a long sleep.

HEART OF THE COUNTRY BY NICK ARMBRISTER on amazon

          HEART OF THE COUNTRY

 

       SHORT STORY COLLECTION

 

            BY NICK ARMBRISTER 

 

 

 

NORWAY BOMBER STORY – SCENE 1

The Halifax bomber soared over the small coastal islands at the mouth of the fjord, clearing the rocks by a scant few feet. Gently levelling off the plane remained at thirty feet above the silent Norwegian water. Four ripples of water followed the plane at two hundred and forty miles an hour. Vertical rock sides reared up three thousand feet at either side of the mile wide fjord, giving a breathtakingly stunning view that was almost primeval in its power and imagery.

Unusually, the alert German defences remained quiet, too quiet. No flak, no fighters from their nearby base at Kristiansand airfield. Was something up? Or was it just his nerves, the pilot thought as he scanned his instruments and the outside view speeding by every second. Not even the radar and listening posts stationed at Oderoya Stadion had found them; they were undiscovered till now, or so it seemed. Maybe they would make it – they had pulled a bad and dangerous mission; to get back home would be nothing short of miraculous. Fuck this! No time for doubts, press on, all the way to their objective, the target! If the pilot failed, he would die trying. Again he scanned his instruments, moodily this time and frowned. He spoke slowly and clearly into the intercom. “Pilot to Flight Engineer. Starboard outer is running a bit hot, come up front and keep an eye on the gauges. I’m busy checking for those frisky Krauts.”

“Engineer to Pilot. On my way.”

“Pilot to crew. Keep an eye out for Flak and fighters. Keep scanning. If you see the bastards, call ’em out and for fuck sake, use the clock system. We’re in enemy territory now. Let’s do this mission and make it count. Pilot, out.”

Banking around the fjord edge, the heavy warplane followed the dark water like a huge bird, built for war, to kill or to be killed on the most dangerous mission of the war. And of their lives. This was it – to prove it was possible, even achievable, for soon they would find out one way or another.

Now the fjord was straight ahead, a deep glacial valley, steep sided and water filled. Three miles of calm cold water as dark as death itself and as cold as Norwegian ice. German guns ringed the cliff tops on each side with a clear field of fire in their line of sight. Just one shell could end their day now, badly. Surprise remained theirs – the guns were silent. Suddenly a thought came to the pilot and his heart turned cold, at the thought of her, the lost one. Shaking his head he snapped out of his reverie and flew the plane.

                                                                                                                                                                                    “Dark Stone”                                                                                                                                                            

Oh how I yearn to be with you, my dark angel of the forbidden realm,                                                      Our time was brief, full of enduring emotion, of bridges crossed, forever.                                                           Now you’re gone, nothing but dust, your memories haunting me, tempting me to my grave.                       So tempting, to stop the pain in my soul, just one quick action and I’ll be with you.                                      Not now though, as I have a job to do.                                                                                                      Soon enough we will be as one.                                                                                                                 Now I use my pain, our pain to do my eternal duty.                                                                                               Forgive me for going to war against your kind, now my enemy by circumstance.                                                  I love you my dark one…

The heavy bomber roared down the fjord, thirty feet of air between it and the water, three miles to the objective, the target, the secret facility. Now the Germans woke up, sporadic firing coming from the hilltops on either side of the fjord; the height of the cliff sides was lower here so the guns could target the plane… just. Large guns and small alike spewed out their deadly fire. Several waterspouts sprang up behind the bomber, fingers of white water a hundred feet high. Straining against gravity, they collapsed, harmlessly. Nazi gunners made the classic mistake of firing on sight of their enemy but not allowing for forward movement, so the shells fell behind. They would soon learn and adjust their aim.

In the cockpit of the Halifax bomber the pilot watched the shore based weapons fire ineffectively and he acted accordingly. He gently brought the left wing up thirty degrees and climbed twenty feet and allowed the bank to starboard to continue, a little. Enough to leave their present course by yards but enough to keep forward momentum up the fjord. After ten seconds and half a mile he corrected his course to the original. This paid off: the second salvo of large anti-aircraft shells thundered into the water at where the plane would have been. Yes, the gunners had re-aimed correctly but their target wasn’t there, it had been a hundred yards to the right. Onboard the pilot spoke. “Knew it would work. Okay, two miles to go, keep alert. The square heads want to nail us now.”

Flying out of range of the last German guns brought them into contact with more, an ongoing game of chess, who would draw blood first? Yellow and red tracer shells arced in several directions as the light guns on the shore tried to find the range, and failed. Proximity-fused shells exploded in the air, scattering small razor-sharp fragments far and wide. Like a fine rain this fell into the water in small splashes, well away from the plane.

“Top Turret Gunner to Pilot. Can I return fire at the enemy guns?” the frustrated gunner asked.

“Okay, but keep your bursts short; save some ammo for our home trip.”

With a soft mechanical whirring noise the top turret turned to port and lined up on the shore guns, four hundred yards. A staccato of gunfire shot from the four point .303inch Browning machine guns in the turret, at the limit of their range, a definite morale boost for the gunner and his crew. The small shells fell around a shore based twin 20mm gun position. Caught reloading, two of the gun crew fell dead, the price of war. When their bloodied corpses had been removed, the Halifax was out of range…

Events moved so quickly, a rollercoaster of war that was unstoppable with its ferocity and vengeance, calling for more death, more high explosives, more gunfire and flying steal. Soon the surprise of the bomber ran out, ran away from them and left them naked and now vulnerable; all that remained was a large slow four engine heavy bomber with seven men on a suicide mission and a quick death.

With the target in sight, less than two miles away down the far end of the fjord, it all went wrong. It was so simple, really. A large explosive charge had been placed in the water – was it one or many? That never mattered; the bomber crew never suspected death lay lurking in the dark water below them. When the bomber passed over at a mere thirty feet, under many of the guns but just right for the moored explosives, primed for action, tragedy struck. Six steel cables held a ton of High Explosive just below the surface delicately, balanced by twenty four large air bladders. Now the shore guns lost their battle, but this outcome was different.

Placed a mile and a half from the end of the fjord, away from the so-called “target” which was out of blast range and within good visual range of the officers who controlled the detonator, they pushed the plunger and sent an electrical spark down waterproof wires under the water to the bomb that slept no more. Here the fjord was just half a mile wide; those on either bank had better duck or the blast wave would take the air from their lungs and give them a huge slap in the face. Watched through several pairs of binoculars away from the target and from other locations, the plane flew into to the trap. As planned, like a child to a toy. No more seconds ticked away and more badly aimed shellfire splashed around the plane, ineffectively. On the ultimate part of the mission, so close yet so far to confirm what was suspected but not known. Would it soon be a fact, were the Germans and their evil allies doing their deadly business? No one on the Halifax would ever know. A great “kick” in the water erupted into a tower of blinding white water and spray, rising like some huge awakening monster from slumber. At nearly two hundred and fifty miles an hour and just above zero feet, the plane roared into it. Avoidance was impossible.

Onboard the bomber the pilot saw the blast and water rise when he was a hundred yards away, rising, forever increasing in height as the blast energy forced the water upwards. In two seconds it was there – events were devastating. Up front the Bomb Aimer manning the single front gun screamed: “Fuck! Skipper turn, turn away!”

But it was too late. Nosing into the water, metal was torn, sheets of aluminium were torn, breaking, flying from the wing surfaces. Exposed ribs and stringers of the inner wing structure bent and creaked under immense strain. Several main wing fuel tanks ruptured, fuel mixing with water. Propeller blades on the port two engines snapped like matchwood and sent fragments spinning like confetti; number one port engine coughed and died, flooded by water. Number two now bladeless continued to run for a split second, screaming as the engine oversped; in a blur the top cowling cover was torn free and spun into space like an autumn leaf in a gale. Straight after, the engine mountings failed and snapped. Freed of the wing, the engine tumbled free and fell into the fjord waters. Loose electrical cables sparked and arced, shooting sparks into the air like angry little creatures themselves alive as the warplane died. Under the upward shove of rising water, the bomber lurched upwards as if by a giant hand, and both bomb doors failed immediately, the port door jamming up against the warload, the starboard door bending downwards and coming away in the spray of water. Both right engines continued to run, turning their airscrews at full power. As the port wing engines had no power, the starboard side yawed out of control and added to the destruction, overstressing the right main spar that coupled with the upward thrust from the blast to separate the starboard wing cleanly from the fuselage. Now coming out of the terrific column of water the airplane was battered, broken, wounded, dying. Sure enough, the explosives had worked as intended. Spinning like a falling leaf, the right wing soared and careered two hundred yards through the air. Visible damage amounted to large sections of alloy missing from the lower surface and three single panels from the upper. Both engines turned a speed until the wing hit the surface of the sandy shoreline, under a cliff face, in a noise made like Thor himself, and the aerofoil ceased to be. Ruptured fuel tanks exploded as metal sparked against rock, igniting hundreds of gallons of gasoline. The structure collapsed, bent and deformed, sending metal fragments in all directions, shattering in a ball of angry orange flame. Black smoke rose into the air as the remains tumbled and bounced, dislodging part of the rock face by the narrow beach. In a cacophony of sound, tons of loose rock fell onto the wreckage and into the shallow water, sending ripples gently outwards as the fire burned, fed by burning alloy and fuel vapour. It resembled a scene from hell. Was this a snapshot of what would soon happen if the Nazis used their new super weapon?

Missing a wing, the Halifax continued in the direction of flight for a few more seconds. Now only a fine mist remained of the water tower from the explosion, gravity dragged the battered outburst back to its home, the fjord. Ripples spread far and wide as a reminder the blast. In the air, the mortally hit Halifax curved to earth in a big arc, what airspeed there was fell away. It resembled a child’s model plane, broken and thrown away, discarded after a tantrum. But this warplane contained seven men. In the tail gun position the gunner, a 26-year-old Irish man, a veteran of eighteen missions, was very fearful. He glimpsed the torn-off wing hitting the beach and the chaos that followed and he knew what would follow, that he was about to die. In the top turret the 22-year-old gunner screamed, an animal sound as he prepared to die. Up front the Bomb Aimer was one of the lucky ones; knocked unconscious by the blast, it was his young fiancée back in England who would be unlucky. In the cockpit the pilot struggled in vain to control what was uncontrollable: until the last moment he struggled, a lost battle – he was a brave man. Down by his side the Flight Engineer hung on for his life, with no functioning engines to monitor now. Never in his young nineteen years had he ever been as scared but he still had faith in his pilot to land this broken plane, even now. His young innocence was also naivety. Behind the Bomb Aimer, the Navigator quickly prayed as he felt the bomber shake and lurch through the air. He quickly looked at the view ahead and past the unconciouss Bomb Aimer and he became upset. He had reason to be.  The last crew member, the Wireless Operator, in the fuselage, was already dead. A piece of metal had broken away and had hit him on the head, fracturing his skull. He was slumped over his radios, dead at his post.

Now, falling tail first to the earth from an altitude measured in a few dozen feet, debris broke away and followed the plane, small splashes in the water. Touching once, violently, the Halifax bounced back into the air, tail lifting for a second and then plunging into the water followed by the rest of the machine. The glazed nose area caved in, smashed in by the water; torrents poured in past the Bomb Aiming position, washing the Gunner down the fuselage, along with the Navigator, who drowned, horribly. Water cascaded like a mad serpent through the plane, filling space occupied by air in less than ten seconds, a watery tomb for all on board. Those alive and conscious drowned and left this world. Settling into the dark water, lower and lower until the fuselage disappeared completely, the plane disappeared from view. Due to the missing wing, the starboard side sank first to the bottom of the fjord, thirty metres below and a hundred from the shore. In two minutes calm water replaced the ripples and waves; only floating debris remained, along with the burning wing on the shore. It was like the airplane has ceased to exist. Now the pilot was with his dead Satanic love.

Orders had been followed and sombre congratulations were passed by radio to the gun crews and special explosive crew who had taken part in the battle and won. Victory was won, proving the technique of placing a ton of explosive in shallow water, could bring a plane down. Gun crews had harried their enemy but equally helped in the end result. Would the next attack be as easily repulsed? What if it was a dozen bombers, a hundred? Only time would tell…

 

 

im on tumblr

http://www.tumblr.com/blog/nickgothposts

JUNIPER’S DAUGHTER – FRONTIER TOWN by nick armbrister out on amazon

The grey transport was hit by the edge of the laser beam, not a direct hit but enough to damage it by burning through the paint, scorching the metal and melting through the upper hull of the troop compartment breaching the pressurised insides. Fortunately there were no soldiers in or they would be toast. Burning bits of metal fizzed and fell away in the slipstream leaving a large jagged hole. Aerodynamic buffeting affected the transport’s flight performance greatly reducing its speed and agility, if the jet got onto its tail it would shoot it down for a hard kill and not just damage it. Radioing it was damaged and out of the fight, the transport turned to Renford and slowly climbed for height; if wouldn’t head for home or it would be shot down. No, it had more evil intentions, in its weapon magazine were eighty-six nuclear bullets and these would be fired mercilessly onto the town randomly at maximum rate of fire.

   The Aeroprogress T-720 Kahlia Akasha jet fighter was heavily damaged by the exploding nuclear bullets whose flash almost blinded the pilot, his dark vision visor on his helmet saved his sight. Shock waves reached out at the speed of sound, shaking his warplane and upending it sending it into a death spiral towards the ground; the engine coughed and cut out in the vacuum of air following the shockwaves. Bits of access panels fell away from the fuselage revealing vulnerable innards, one of the front canard control surfaces was ripped away, fluttering down like a broken butterfly. Cracks spread over the cockpit canopy which almost failed under the stress, the nose wheel landing gear hydraulics failed allowing the wheel to come half down into the slipstream slowing the jet to stall speed. Aboard the jet every single electronic computer system, display and avionics went offline, dead, as did the flight control system which was fibre optic controlled. Falling to earth the pilot was almost knocked unconscious; in his wounded warplane he had seconds to eject or try to force land, would he live?

   Now over the town centre at three thousand feet, the highest the escort transport could fly level in its damaged state, the pilot pressed the trigger and fired every one of his nuclear bullets. Some were set to airburst following his air battle; quickly clicking ground burst option, he watched his shells fly three miles before exploding in the air or on the ground when he pushed the nose of his craft dangerously downwards. His airspeed increased madly and wind blast whistled and ripped into the damaged cargo section threatening to rip his craft apart. Instead of controlling his descent by throttling back he advanced his single throttle from maximum power to emergency power, forcing his methane rocket engine into overdrive. Thirty seconds of this would blow the engine and his craft up but he didn’t have thirty, he had little more than six seconds. He followed his exploding nuclear bullets that detonated with the force of ten tons of normal explosive on a defenceless town, wrecking shops, houses, offices, pubs, clubs, roads and people. Thousands of people were killed in the wicked barrage of nuclear bullets, two hundred more died when the stricken transport and its suicidal pilot thundered through the roof of Gothic Night nightclub where an alternative music night was being held. Among those killed were Denise the tattooed lady of the night, Jason martial arts expert who sold old tour t-shirts, Rolo the huge fat security bodyguard, ultra talented singer Katie Kat from the gothic metal band Gothic Sunrise and dozens more who lived and thrived in the Gothic Quarter. Among a hundred or so critically wounded was Craig who ran his small shop, it was fifty-fifty if he would live. Nothing remained of the club except a huge crater and rubble, blast damage smashed many other pubs, bars and properties in the area, not to mention almost total destruction wrought by the nuclear bullets. It would take years to repair the damage, indeed never if the will wasn’t there. The English army had drawn much blood on this evil mission, which wasn’t over yet, not by a long way.

   Coming to, in his spinning crippled warplane, the pilot attempted to radio his base but the radios were dead, shaking his head he pushed his control stick fully forward bringing online the manual back up system that was an emergency once only get you down function. Seeing an overgrown field on the edge of town he pushed the nose down, desperately trying to maintain airspeed, he had already stalled and spun one time another time would be his end. His engine was still on but not in working order, shutting it down manually and closing off the fuel supply to help reduce fire risk, he popped the circuit breaker even though no power flowed through any of the systems. Lower and lower over the rough grass, a tragic shadow getting larger until impact! Bouncing once losing and three of the eight blades of the rear propeller, catching a wingtip and snapping off the vertical fin at the tip swung the fighter round, sending it careering backwards through an old stone wall smashing bits off it and shaking the pilot. Spinning, bouncing and finally coming to a halt after a hundred metre free for all over the grass the jet was still. Fumes from a ruptured fuel tank slowly wafted into the air and into the broken cockpit lulling the pilot whose face mask had been torn off. Almost falling asleep he would be burned to death if the fumes caught fire, a brave woodcutter from a nearby copse of trees ran forward with an axe. He smashed at the tough plastic cockpit finally breaking through where it was cracked and making a hole big enough to free the rear-seated pilot. The front cockpit was empty. Using his razor sharp knife to cut the pilots five-point harness he slapped the man on the face to wake him. Cutting his umbilicals that connected him to the aircraft he was now free. Cursing, the woodcutter struggled to lift the semi conscious man out of this ruined aircraft, after minutes of struggling he did it and carried him ten yards over the grass in case the fuel or weapons caught fire. Would further assistance come from the town to the shot down aircraft and pilot?

 

Crete .

http://youtu.be/mVoSawr4VF0

 

Crete                                                                                                                                                            

There was nothing else before it in the history of war.

Much worse was to follow.

Ferocious battles that changed history forever.

Warship versus warplane.

It started at an island.

A Greek island called Crete.

And it was no myth.

The cost was immense but They wouldn't have it any other way, would they?

Where did it start?

Events of cataclysmic proportions engulfed those involved.

In the end, after this battle, it was confirmed that the Royal Navy was the senior service.

They never let the British Army down.

Nazi forces invaded mainland Greece after the Italians failed.

A valiant British Army and Allied defence bought time.

The navy evacuated thousands of troops from Greece to Crete.

Soon another evacuation would follow the first.

Before that, the first airborne invasion in military would take place.

Thousands on both sides would die in a seesaw battle on sunny Crete.

With no air cover the Allies fought for survival.

They almost won.

Royal Navy ships saved the day, at enormous cost, slugging it out with Nazi diver bombers.

Cunningham said to Churchill:

It takes three years to build a ship, three centuries to build a tradition.

Warship losses were 3 cruisers:

HMS Fiji, Gloucester and Calcutta;

6 destroyers:

HMS Greyhound, Kelly, Kashmir, Hereward, Imperial and Juno.

It didn’t stop there; a carrier and two battleships were crippled, along with other damaged destroyers and cruisers.

The Royal Navy didn’t let the British Army down...

Spaced Out

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DNVgBO26d5w&feature=youtu.be

       

 

 

Spaced Out

At Jack Ass Flats in the desert strange things happen.                                                              

Chav Tat Bitch tests his nuclear thermal rocket engines and dreams of trips to Mars.                    

Mule Bitch roams the desert with his malformed cock in his hand.                                                     

His bell end glows bright green.                                                                                                 

Tat Bitch is to blame.                                                                                                 

Meanwhile, the psychotic man with the inverted nipples dreams of murdering his male rivals.                                                                                                                                         

In his mind he's killed, raped and ate the bodies of Tat Bitch, the bro' in-law and others a thousand times.                                                                                                           

Some believe inverted nipples cause his malady.                                                                      

Or is it a missing foreskin?                                                                                                

Stolen by aliens.                                                                                                                    

He befriends Tat Bitch's make believe women.                                                                           

Maybe it's sexual.                                                                                                                          

Mule Bitch gets it on with hookers who are really cacti with multiple holes in them.

That's our secret, shhh!                                                                                                                    

Don't tell him.                                                                                                                        

Tat Bitch floats frighteningly freely in his nuclear fission thermal rocket engine exhaust.                                                                                                                                  

His bolts in his neck glow orange and his nervous twitch increases a hundred fold.

Body popping radiation!                                                                                                      

Soon he'll take the freak with the green bell end and the weirdo with inverted nips to

Mars in his small spacecraft to see Gonk.                                                                         

Gonk is small, a soldier and unstable.                                                                                 

And loves guns.                                                                                                                  

Space cadet time!                                                                                                                          

Cabin fever will ensue.                                                                                                         

Sexual events in space.

Berlin Tokyo War Hearts

By Nick Armbrister and other authors/poets

ISBN: 978-1-4717-0550-2

Copyright 2012 Nick Armbrister All Rights Reserved

No poems can be copied by any means unless for reviewing purposes, credit Nick Armbrister or named poem author in the article.

In loving memory of dear Lynette Hammond, RIP my dear angel. I’ll never forget you. Peace my sister, Nick. XXX

Lynette

Not quite sure why your death affected me so much Lynette. Left me very upset when I found out. I'd just been to Tesco’s at Greenfield for Naomi. I checked my messages and Mel told me of your death in a car accident. Mel was upset and I felt her pain.

                                                                   

I looked on Mel's profile and saw your name. Why did you have to die? I'm unsure why I was sad. It just seemed wrong. I got back to Naomi's to do meditation and you Lynette was on my mind. We did meditation and I was very sad.                                                                                           

 

Maria did Reiki healing on me and I told her what happened. She said Oh No! I cried then over a gal I'd never known and never would in this world. Maybe in the next. I sent healing to you Lynette, how the hell can I heal you when you're gone? I sent it to your family and to my dear friend Mel in South Africa, half a world away.                              

 

I so wish Mel lived nearby, I'd be there for her. I wonder what you are like Lynette. What makes you laugh, cry and happy. NOW I can't coz your gone. I pray to a better place.                                                                                                              

 

Peace.

Black Squirrel

God damn F-35s¹ caught me napping! Rolling upside down from fifty three thousand feet and diving straight down, I must lose them. Or die. High altitude wasn’t enough. Their AESA² radar defeated my stealth and they found me. I dodged their Mach 4³ AMRAAM⁴ missiles by doing steep S-turns; big yellow flowers of High Explosive reached out for me and missed. I swear I saw red hot chunks of titanium shrapnel zip past! Jamming the hell out their radar, only partly worked. I wondered, could they track the slipstream from my warplane? No, how was that possible? But flight was once impossible, two centuries ago.

Wish I was able to climb to ninety thousand feet and avoid the damn F-35s but my bird won’t go that high. Not without a bigger wing and a spacesuit for me. Diving down we go earthwards. I admit my big thrill isn’t battling the enemy jets hunting me, nor the destruction my single nuclear bomb will cause. It’s simply rolling upside down and feeling pure fucking joy, as my pink (yes, you heard right. Is that a problem? Pastel colours match the sky, not matt black) warplane follows my moves and goes inverted, straight down. Away to freedom, I dream. My Radar Warning Receiver⁵ picks up enemy radars. My jammer jams their arses. For awhile.

Speeding down to earth, vertically, I shove the single throttle to maximum. My bird accelerates like the Devil is after her. He may as well be; F-35s are his chariot and guided missiles his reach.  G-force grips me like my ex wife’s sister. A forbidden touch of need and longing. I know I could close my eyes and dive straight down, going supersonic now. Slight buffet as we pass the sound barrier. Straight down from 53k, right into the ground. And for a few seconds, I do close my eyes. Would my single nuclear weapon detonate when I flew into the earth? Would it? Maybe I should do it, commit suicide. No more pain... a dark seductive temptation.

I open my eyes. Numbers appear on my Helmet Mounted Sight⁶, always changing. And on my computer screen and Head Up Display⁷. Seven hundred and seventy knots, soon passing eight hundred, in the thin upper air. Which thickens as I dive lower and slows me, a little. I look out of my gold plated cockpit canopy. A distant sun sparkle, no two, on far off airplanes, shows my enemy is there, visible. Real, not just a blip on my radar screen, if it was on. My set can pick up F-35s, like they can me. Who are we kidding in this high tech chess duel? Only ourselves in the huge blue vista of the sky. Come and get me, you fuckers!

Suddenly, I wish my ex wife was with me. Why do I think of her at this exact moment? Because I’m in dire peril and actually enjoying it? She always was a mad bitch which was why I made love to her sister. And let her catch us. I have a death wish! Yes, if she was here, in my front cockpit with a disabled ejection seat and tied up, I’d drop my single one megaton nuke and fly us into the blast. What fun! Laser! Laser! Laser! screams the warning voice. Damn! F-35s have come down and zapped me with their ranging lasers. Can’t jam a laser. I reduce power to idle and corkscrew my warbird. It works! 20mm gunfire sparkles past ahead. A hundred metre miss. Too close!

Stick to my balls and pull till my eyes pop out of my Frankenstein skull. To a Satanic God in Heaven we fly some crazy arc in the sky. With a slow engine, on idle, I feel g-force crush me into my seat. Must be eight or nine. G-suit gives me tolerance, an extra two g. I pull back even more, damn I love my bird! Russia makes good planes. Upwards I go, still with a touch of my earlier speed. Radar online, pick up two F-35s a mile apart and coming downwards to get me. Lock them up, click, select missile, click, launch, click, click and two Bright Stars launch. Speed finally slowing, making me an easy gun target. No need. Two missile hits, two kills!

Reverse my turn, on idle throttle. In effect a stall turn. So damn slow! What a beautiful flying machine. Blue sky turning to a dark green richly coloured earth. Throttle to cruise and tree top height. Behind me, two F-35 jets disintegrate and fall earthwards. So fucking what if I killed two men? They had family. So did I. Till they bombed my hometown and stole my second wife. By flying like Waldo Pepper and being as evil as Stalin, I’ll get them. Revenge keeps me warm, like Ffionna’s embrace. Hell, I miss that girl, my girl. Snap out of it Nik or you die. Emotion in battle will kill you. Check my jet over, my route, my weapon, my fuel. For her. My dead wife.

F-35 pilots fought like demons. They had top jets and hit me good and square. Four shrapnel holes in my wings and a slow fuel leak. Time to jettison my drop tanks; they’re empty. Everything else is fine, except one thing. The four holes in my jet increase my radar cross section and they can see me on their scopes. Got to be even more cunning. Fly dog leg courses, nice and slow. Come in from the east, where they won’t expect me. Be a real cunt! As they were, using a B-4 Batwing bomber to kill my wife at St Petersburg. It’s not her fault she was a biological weapon scientist. She was my WIFE! My FUCKING wife. You KILLED her!

Target coming up. Numbers counting down, fuel burn and loss will come before target destination. Only one thing to do; full throttle and zoom climb! Here we go, speed increasing, height climbing, up we go. Now they see us on their radar horizon in my damaged jet. Ah, I see our target, all laid out like on my training flight. I did two of those and was never picked up. I thought I’d get away with this. I was wrong. Bomb armed, engine sputtering now. Nose down to use our speed and height. Here we go. No need to drop the bomb, it detonates on height above ground. Fifteen hundred feet over Manchester. I’m so sorry, really, I am. Zero.

DETONATION...

Notes

1. The Lockheed Martin F-35 Lightning II is a family of single-seat, single-engine, 5^th generation multi role fighters.

2. Active Electronically Scanned Array (AESA), also known as active phased array radar is a type of phased array radar.

3. Mach 4, supersonic. 760 mph at sea level. Multiply by four for Mach 4. Speed varies with height.

4.  AMRAAM The AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile, or AMRAAM (pronounced "am-ram"), is a modern beyond visual range air to air missile (AAM) capable of all-weather day-and-night operations.

5. Radar Warning Receiver (RWR) systems detect the radio emissions of radar systems.

 6. A Helmet Mounted Sight (HMS) is a device used in some modern aircraft, especially combat aircraft. HMS project information similar to that of head-up displays (HUD) on an aircrew’s visor or reticule, thereby allowing him to obtain situational awareness and/or cue weapons systems to the direction his head is pointing.

7. A Head-Up Display (HUD) is any transparent display that presents data without requiring users to look away from their forward viewpoint. The origin of the name stems from a pilot being able to view information with the head positioned "up" and looking forward, instead of angled down looking at lower instruments.

Author’s note. The attacking warplane is an Aeroprogress T-720 Kahlia Akasha turboprop powered multi-role warplane. Top speed is over 600 mph with a 4,500 shp turboprop engine. She is built in Russia and can carry all weapons including nuclear.

Only You (by Mel)
I find the feelings hard to fight.
Feeling love.
Feeling lost.
Missing you.
Only you.
I long to touch your silken hair,
See your smile.
Look at me like you used to.
Only you.
And I curl up in the pillows on my bed.
Cover my face,
hold my heart,
and cry for you,
Only you.
I try to escape.
I close my eyes.
Try to sleep.
I dream all night.
I dream of you,
Only you...

I

I have been married,                                                                                                                              I know how you feel.                                                                                                                                         Don't patronise me,

 

I've experienced.                                                                                                                                            Been there,                                                                                                                                                       seen it before.                                                                                                                                                            Been in the dock,                                                                                                                                            right on the edge relationship train wreck. I've been there.                                                                                                                                                       I know gut wrenching anxiety,                                                                                                              dark despair,                                                                                                                                        delicious forbidden suicide pull.                                                                                                                   Snap out of it and say sorry!                                                                                                                       Save your relationship and save face, avert a war.                                                                                                                                                        I was married and understand.

We

We don't talk now but we once did. I was there when it all went wrong; a ghost, spirit or spectre? No just me. I saw you argue with your wife, knew you'd blame me and be vicious. A Jack Russell. Who's the postman?                                                                                                            

 

You threw stuff, broke a picture on the wall. Threatened to chuck ornaments at me, I sensed right then, your madness. If I made a stand, would you back off or do me? I don't know what words made you like this; did your wife say them?                                                             

 

Or am I to blame? My presence here in your home, in her knickers next? You calm down and leave, best thing mate. She tells me what happened; I'm in the middle again.                                                                                                     You're absence is noted, wifey and me watch Dante's Peak. Nice moment.

 

Do I make a move? She's sat next to me, so easy to put my arm round her. A kiss, feelings always there, a fuck, real love making session, no going back. Silly gal never locked the door, you can catch us!

 

Do you want to? So you can kill us, prove you're right or agree with something twisted inside your mad skull? I know the reason why.

In

Doesn't matter what my name is. Certain types of men do certain types of things. Like join a terrorist group coz they believe they're right. I've been inside with them.                                                                                                                          Tasted real fear of being shanked.                                                                                                                 

 

Lose your eyes boy?                                                                                                                                            

 

Or in the back, sharpened toothbrush style.                                                                                                                         

 

Hell, for you son, a cut throat razor. I saw all the top bananas and knew their crimes/sins. And yes, some really did believe in their revolutionary struggle.                                                                     

 

I saw, I was there.                                                                                                                              

 

Walking thru the locker room, I never watched my back as much, tasted real terror.                                                                                                                                       Like lead. I was in the prison transfer van when it was hijacked and we fled outside,                                                    Belfast.                                                                                                                                               

 

Running thru streets, past people, a bloody tourist with camera and walkman! No pic of me mate! I stop him and we row, struggle. Scratch his toys.                                                                                                                                                         

 

Won't hurt him, more time inside, he's not my enemy.                                                                                                                                  

Who is? You? Brave man seeing NI and war.                                                                                                                       

I think back to being in the van, wondering where to flee. Live off the land on a hill,                                                                                                                         field, abandoned ship or house?                                                                                                                   

 

Time to go.                                                                                                                                                   

 

I'm in this all the way, escaped terrorist prisoner. I’m a special case; you see I’m both Royalist and Loyalist.                                                                                                                         

 

Will they save me or hunt me? Or will the RUC get me?

Poem

All is fair in love and war, till your enemy shoots in the back and your partner leaves you by text msg. I collect lost souls.                                                                                                                                  

 

When two lost souls meet, they’re no longer lost.

You’ve two choices:

                                                                                                                                     No1. You either stay in Oldham and waste away in limbo.                                                                                     

 

Or no2. You get a bullet in the head. Fuck me mate, I want two lol.

Outlanders

We are the outlanders, we're not from around here.

Don’t forget it.                                

Not from your clicky lil town.

We’re the OUTLANDERS bitch!

Say

THEY say make love not war.                                                                                                                         I say THEY have no idea of what they’re talking about.

They think I’m mad due to the way I am and my interests of Goth/alternative music, tattoos, study of war/history/aircraft and love of art/tattoos.                                                                                                                                                                         I say I’m not mad.                                                                                                                                           

I’m cursed/gifted with an ability to see many things I don’t want to and to put it into poetry.                         

And every day this responsibility of my talent drives me down.                                                                                 

Asking why brings no answers.                                                                                                                   It’s what I have to do...

Event

Now I know how wrong war in the world is and murder on our streets. It won’t ever change or stop.                                                                                                                     You see, it’s the way we are.                                                                                                                      Maybe it’ll stop on the next genetic step/human level in our development. Like with the so called grey aliens who are meant to have a collective mind.                                            

 

I bet they can make war, imagine an F-16 shooting at them with an AMRAAM missile lol. Bye bye F-16. War of the worlds motherfucker.                                                                                                                               Give me more beer...

Why War?

I grew up in the end of the Cold War. I knew real fear of Soviet nuclear attack in 1983/4.                                                                                                  

I study OPERATION ABLE ARCHER Nov1983 NATO command and control wargame. Soviet/Warsaw Pact(Warpac) took it as real.                                                                                        

Imagine if WW3 kicked off.                                                                                                                  

Still scares me now.                                                                                                                                   No person can scare me so much though they can hurt me.                                                                               

It was real fear.                                                                                                                                           

Now, I ask why?                                                                                                                                                       A World of Trouble by Patrick Tyler covers the Middle East... bloody basket cases!I have a book on WW3 in Europe in 1986.                                                                                                 

Pure poetry.                                                                                                                                         Dark, beautiful war, including nuclear.                                                                                                                           I ask why?

Ages Ago

When I was a kid, in skool, I saw another kid with a t shirt of a warplane on it. I think it was 1981 or just before or after. We were waiting for our dinner meal. Now I know the warplane is a Rockwell B-1(B). On the cover of March2012 Air Force Monthly magazine is such a warplane.                                       

Very beautiful and very deadly.                                                                                                                                

I’ve only known a few women more curvy than a B-1B bomber... why are war machines so beautiful?                                                                                                                                                            

My soul cries...

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.

 

Precious

Very rarely in a human lifetime,                                                                                                           2 people come into contact.                                                                                                                         They struggle to put labels on it,                                                                                                 

indeed, why should they?                                                                                                             Always remember my dear Mel,                                                                                                 

twin flames are always close and flames never ever go out, no matter what.                                                                                                                                Blessed be my angel, Nick. XXX

Pen

My pen                                                                                                                                                      is my weapon                                                                                                                         and I’m a soldier                                                                                                                               of ink.

My Blade, My Life (by Mel)
With trembling hands, she reaches for her blade. She tells herself it will be the last time.
She tells herself this every time.
She never succeeded before, but will just have to now.
With the blade in her hand, she breaks out into a cold sweat.
She starts shivering and her heart beats faster.
She thrives on these feelings,
she tells herself she must do it, and she knows what she is about to do, but she does not care.
She takes the blade and slits her wrists -
Bad, real Bad...
The blood starts pouring from her wrists, exposing bone, flesh - her hands dangling -
She drops the blade and minutes later drifts off into a world of her own. Her life had little meaning, and now - No meaning at all.
She had to do it.
Now she is free from pain and suffering.
And now she has succeeded....

Happy

You all go on holiday to the South of France. A few days away from busy Paris. Playing happy families, pretending everything is fine. Pierre is Annette's best friend, spending so much time together. Oh yes, Pierre is in love with Annie. So much so. Haven't you seen the way he looks at her when she's not looking? If it came down to it, would he marry her? Be able to satisfy her in bed? Kiss her the way she likes it? No way!

Pierre jerks himself off every night and cries in his pillow. Boo hoo, I love Annie. She won't give me what I want. I'm such a failure. Man it up lad! You're pals with a nice lady. Get her drunk and seduce her, think what her pussy tastes like. Are you able to satisfy Annie? Your trip seems so romantic; it isn't. Bit by bit, you fade away. Don't let her make you sad. Sexual tension, oh my!

Give Annie a real seeing to on the kitchen table, get her begging for more. A decade of friendship and sexual tension, hand in hand. Can you separate the two? Enjoy your holiday.

Full Circle

That year was the hardest for me, 1989.                                                                                                                                            Becoming 18.  Memories of what I’d done in my mind’s eye.                                                                                                      

Did I really get her pregnant? Why am I in the job fixing cars when I hate it?                                                                                               

Why do I row with my mates? Feel so down?                                                                                                                       Music lifts me, made me who I am now in 2012.                                                                                                                   The Boardwalk was down the road from the garage I worked at.                                                                                    

His Latest Flame on there. Gal who runs the club said so.                                                                                                                         I was so happy, see them live. Would have been my most important gig.                                                                       

Not to be!                                                                                                                                                                                     

They cancelled it. I was heart broken.                                                                                                                                                    Time moved on. I finally got their album in summer 2011.                                                                                                               Played it and thought back what I’d missed. It hit me again.                                                                                                   

What could have been? Me, so young and alive, seeing the gals live. Which one would steal my heart? Their music touched my soul. Eclipsed by All About Eve in early November 89, gothic surrender.                                                                                                

Fate and chance put me in touch with Moira’s cousin. Tell her she did great songs I say.          

And to Trish, hey I write too. But your songs are the best. May I use your words? I want to do them live as poems to share with everyone.                                                      

Maybe Trish and Moira will get back together and give me my gig? So many things have changed since 89 but so much remains the same. Years fall by too fast. 1987 to now, HLF only gets better.                                                                                                           

From early second hand singles to now. What other band sang so poignantly about The Troubles? Yet they love like I do and feel joy and pain, mirror image here. Circle almost complete.                                             

One day Moira sing…

Finest Hour

Glasgow guitar band His latest Flame                                                                                                                        singing about love and conflict.                                                                                                                                         Feel joy and pain,                                                                                                                                               sing poignantly on The Troubles.                                                                                                                     Trish writes and Moira sings, great live gigs.                                                                                                                 Sadly cancelled their Manchester Boardwalk gig in 1989.                                                                                             

 

Maybe Trish and Moira will reunite in 2012, with the other gals. Jangling guitars and vocal harmonies, relevant now as in 89. You could find their singles on sale second hand in 1987.

 

Early years. Rare music.

Naomi

My friend Naomi sang in the Rising Sun pub in Mossley. She asks me should she sing live? Yes, go on, I reply. Everyone’s hairs will stand up on their necks.                                                        

Naomi sang and people were shocked.                                                                                                               Old rocker sat there, eyes shut, listening.                                                                                                                        

When she’d done, everyone clapped.                                                                                                                     My friend the singer.                                                                                                                                                   

Bless the Child, Wichita Linesman and True Colours. Take your pick. Do some gigs Naomi, I’ll be there.

Sunny 8

Damn yankee Mustang gonna be a real bastard and blow some Krauts outa the fucking sky. Try and stop me mother fuckers! 50cal gunning you down, got many of your kindred by my shells. Always escape with my life. No 109 or 190 ever came close to nailing me.

I'm not called Chuck Yeager! Hell no! I was in Zemke's Wolf Pack.

I died in a field near Crewe, England. No Nazi ever got me. Tell my loved ones it was the weather. Almost took my wingman with it, lost his wing tip when my bird went in. Bang! Gone.

I was a Mustang pilot. Gunning Nazis down.

Hap

She was my new romantic love interest and we had so much in common. Both of us being poets, her talents were formidable like her temper. She liked music like me, Goth and metal. No chance of us going to a gig coz you won't speak to me after I was deleted off your friend list. Ok I overreacted and blamed you, you retaliated. Annoyed and angry, oh yes.

 

No date, meeting me or me taking you out. Kaput. Nor will we read poetry to one another after making love. At least we read them online. I blame facefuk for fucking up what we had before we had it. I'm a wounded lion again and have a new reason to drink so it takes the edge off yesterday.

 

Do I do psychic magic protection around us so you're mine? Bind you to me? My karma is fucked already. Reiki healing last week helped but you blew it away, I need a month of it. Never mind my blood flowing. Imagine we had succeeded? I'd be happy not sad and you not mad, you joyous, not angry.

 

Powder Blue Sky

Under powder blue sky I walk                                                                                                                           watching my portable radar unit.                                                                                                               Long lazy radar arm sweep.                                                                                                                 Blip blip blip!                                                                                                                                             Are you there?

Found You

We met on the bus from St Ives five years ago. You the Goth lady, me the writer.

 

Did I give you my first book? I wonder what you thought. We exchanged Myspace names and promised to keep in touch.                                                                                     

 

I looked for you many times over the years and never found you. Till tonight. Why now after nearly five years? I missed you and wondered how you were and what you are doing. We never said good bye, do let us say hello again and stay close.                                                                   

 

I remember you well. Your Emily the Strange bag and black clothes. Kindred spirit who I feel connected to. Saw you on the bus every Friday when I was going to work in the village. Tell me Leigha Marie, what did you do in five years? Do you remember me?                                                 

 

Goth is cool. Don't ever change. So much I wanted to say to you, words in the sky. I wonder if you write poetry. You look every bit the gothic lady.                                               

 

I'd love you to model for me, one on one in my erotic parlour. Dark regards my dear angel of the night.

Lip

I see you pout at me with your ruby red lipstick covered lips.

A look that means only one thing: you approve of me being naked before you.

What would you do if you objected?

I know your ruby red lippy wouldn't be on the shaft of my big fucking dick as I skull fucked you, oh ever so fucking slowly.

A real mother fucker that feels bloody good.

Remember we, you, gobbled me in my mum's MG sports car.

No lippy then but your soft pink lips on me.

We do this a lot.

I prefer it to making love, am I mad?

Looking down at you, your bobbing head and moving lips taking my cock all the way in, I feel content.

You look up at me and we understand one another.

My turn next to please you.

An honour my queen.

You do this so bloody well.

How did you get so good?

Not even my wife is like you.

I'm sure she doesn’t know our secret.

You're my secret cock sucker and I BLOODY love it.

Feel free to suck my dick whenever you want.

We fit together like hand in glove, my mistress. Xxxx

Before

Been here before when I should have hooked up with Holli and ended up with Al. Make best of a second level situation. Moved 200 miles to join Alison. Happy for a time, living 30 miles from Hol. Oh what a glorious mess Nick was in. Only I could move, be engaged and have a kid with the wrong gal.

 

Happening again.

 

Found a nice witch and we were almost together. I panicked and she got someone new. Bang. Just like a bullet. I met another gal soon after, she's got a boyfriend. Kaos stopped for now. I'm pals with the witch again and told her how I feel about her and that we should be together.

 

I wonder what she feels for me. Something like Holli did?

 

How will we act when we meet? Who will be my girlfriend, ending my two years of being single? The witch who likes planes, poetry and paganism or someone else? I won't see the wrong gal again. I hope...

Our

Our world is an amazing place with a stunning beauty of nature and precious life all over the globe. Both human and animal. Take your pick where you live, on a river boat taking it easy or in the mountains amongst the clouds.

 

Where would I live? An island in the middle of nowhere with a nice wife and our family.

 

Eating fresh fish and living by the beach, happy. So much to see and do, make sure you enjoy your one life. Don't do evil acts, spare the world bad karma and wicked deeds. Make music not missiles. It's important to have fun and treat others as you do yourself.

 

Time in nature will help you be one with yourself and our world, as we spin around the sun. A miracle of evolution with us in the middle.

Think

I think of you now, how we should be together in each other’s world and arms. Completing our journey and combining to create something uniquely ours, not a singular. Why do I feel drawn to you? Like looking in the mirror and you’re there. Feminine reflection of myself. Goddess lore is our path. Endless circle of nature taking me to where?

 

I’m at locations unknown. So many questions for you. Is your path like mine? Your life journey like mine? Why do I love you? Will we be together, as I feel we should have been from the start? Why did fate bring our paths together? When will we look into each other’s eyes?

 

I know we are close our souls intertwined, twin flames. Guided by destiny, brought together by fate. Poetry and the Goddess save me from my grave. Bring an understanding of me, of life. Of you.

 

For so long my path has been cluttered. Wrong turns and dark abysses. Then I found you and light opens up before me as I think of you Ruby, how I lost you and found you again. My High Priestess, who I love eternally.

So

So many things cause me joy, so many things cause me pain... me, 2012. That’s going in the book...

Forlorn and Forsaken

Muted sound of days of our lives’, trumpeting our triumphs and tragedies.

What Reasons

Would you please tell me why I've endured life in many ways? Variously good and variously bad, being an average pupil at school getting average results. Bit of trouble from the bullies, entered the real world to find what? That I love aircraft but never joined the RAF. Too bossy. Doing the wrong jobs like fixing cars and being a builder. I worked with some real wankers, I can tell you.

 

Music helped me overcome huge emotional difficulties like anxiety and depression. I was never one for fighting but I've an interest in weapons, history, writing and books. In my 20s things were easier. I had a decade bakery job, white witch wife, new tattoos, holidays, lots of sex, cars, poetry success and my pals.

 

In my 30s I hit rock bottom. Dole decade and beyond. Dark depression, real heartbreak, boozing and soul searching. Not all bad but not good. South time away from Oldham was nice, shame it didn't last for a decade plus. What now I'm 40? Back into witchcraft to save my soul? What gal? You? What job, the bakery?

Mind Fright Friday Night (for Manny)

I’d been out to the pub on my own I came back early, it was one of those nights. I walked up the main road a little drunk. It was then I heard a car, it sped away so very fast – getaway? Briefly I saw it, gone. Seconds later I heard two bangs, fireworks? No pretty sky light display screams! I heard screams of, “Help! Help! My husband’s been shot!”  My drunkenness shoved aside like an unwelcome friend I rushed to the house, got in the back door saw a scene from hell. Why did fate pick me? Why did fate pick me to see a man dying from a gunshot wound one metre from me? Why did fate allow this to happen? I don’t care what he had done no one deserves death by firearm. Blown away they call it. There was nothing I could do, I felt so helpless. I called the medics; silly woman on the phone did stress me out! That night everything changed forever, the last of my innocence died when I tried to help a shocked wife who’s now a widow with her two kids. I wish I could have done more but I feel I failed, being a witness to a dying man’s life, an end. I’ll place flowers at her gate to remember an awful night that washed away my petty problems. Why did a man die? 

Based on real events I sadly came across late summer 2009 no more guns (or knives) on our streets enough is enough. 

Natalie. What is it with Dark Haired Gals?

In the Goth club it was fun. Usual early 80s tunes played on the decks. Very early Skeletal Family, The Elementals, Red Lorry Yellow Lorry, Xmal Deutchsland, early All About Eve and local bands in our disco called Sacha's Berlin.

Natalie dances like her spinning Spanish stunt plane she flies at weekends. Flight and music are her passions, in time she'll serve in her country's Air Force. Latino gal pilots aren't new; they fought in Spain back in the late 30s. Nat is following their Latin tradition.

Her band, a Goth band is her heart. She represents all that is good and relates to flight and Goth music. Her path is to fly and create music. Does Nat know that her path of music and flying will be remembered forever, crossing all divides, be it years, political or war? With dark brown hair and grey eyes, Natalie was only Latino in her heart. Her pale white skin wasn't suited to her country's capital city.

She was born here in Buenos Aires and followed her local/national bands with a passion. Her stunt plane was named Mayo after her Goth band. She danced and lived for the moment, wearing her heart on her sleeve. Little did our lady know, she would be famous for all the wrong reasons. Nat danced on and felt alive.

Natalie. Basic

Basic flight training was like dancing to The Elementals. Basic, scary and fun. Did Nat know that in a year she would be at the controls of a deadly multi million dollar warplane in the wrong war, with the wrong enemy? No amount of gothic looks would appease her situation over the coming months. Was it all real? That was a distant question, not for now.

The girl danced and flew with equal passion and ferocity. Her brown hair was all over her face and she danced like a spinning airplane. Eyes shut, she was somewhere else. In her mind, she was in the cockpit of her red coloured training plane. Her flight instructor, Alberto, allowed Natalie to acrobat the little plane. She flew it with wildness that surprised everyone, including her.

Rolling upside down and pulling the control stick to her guts, the red airplane moved like a kid’s toy. Diving straight downwards, picking up speed. Alberto was going to take over before top speed was reached but Nat second guessed him and pulled back into a half loop. Up they went into the blue, a hawk in the heavens. Free. Natalie screamed in joy. Looking over at Alberto, her smile said it all. She was a born pilot.

When the record changed, Nat went to the bar and ordered a glass of red wine. Joining her friends, they chatted on guys, music and Nat’s new air force career. Several of her friends had nice boyfriends or lovers with them. In close embraces, they kissed and made small talk. Nat chatted to Katie, on the fundamentals of aerobatics and flight, demonstrating how to loop and roll with her hand. Her other held her wine. Time passed, music played, wine was drunk and Nat slow danced with Roberto.

Being Catholic and part of a close knit family, the girl was a bit of a rebel. Her mother wanted Natalie to marry and have children. Nat was having none of this; it was music, flying and the air force. Not even men like handsome Roberto swayed the girl for marriage. He was local and conscripted in the army. His passion was films and he had to give up college to serve his country. After a year he would finish off his film studies, if fate allowed. Both were friends and occasional lovers, now they danced in Sacha’s.

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.

Natalie. Mid Course

Nat continued her flight training, moving onto more powerful aircraft, flying on and passing her Basic with ease. Next was a fast prop plane from America. It handled like a Mustang. Her instructor was in the back seat. Natalie was up front, alone fighter style.

Her first flight nearly killed them. The roaring engine stopped dead. Engine failure at six thousand feet brought silence. She took control. Pushing the nose down not to stall, Nat made a decision: to land the plane on the Pampas grass. It would save them all. Her instructor kept an eye on his pupil. They should have jumped when there was height to.

The grey green trainer floated like a bird over the huge plain. Nat dropped the nose and flaps and picked a spot. One time lucky. Earth and plane serenely kissed, a song bird alighting a flower. Nat had done it! They were down in one piece, with no damage. Long Pampas grass cushioned their plane.

Nat's instructor knew she would breeze through flight school. Her next fifteen flights were fun. Dog fights, formation flying and navigation. Then the jet! Did Natalie think engine failure was an attempt on her life? To silence her anti government songs? Would the loss of a flight instructor be acceptable? A bullet in her pretty head would be far simpler. Or the other way.

They who watched her let her fly. When Natalie passed her fast prop course with flying colours, They allowed her to live. For now. She could be used, manipulated and sent to war where she would no doubt die. They ruled like Nazis. Some had been in a previous life.

Fast jets beckoned and Nat moved up to a cool Italian aircraft. Fast looking and stylishly designed. On her first flight Nat knew she would go to war. A gut feeling told her. Her instructor showed her how to evade a fictitious enemy by rolling, turning and diving, then climbing. Finally getting on his tail and killing him. He let her loop and roll the advanced jet.

Thirty more jet flights followed, strenuous in every way. High speed flight was dangerous. Another pilot crashed. Finally Nat passed and got her wings. At the passing out parade, she was told what warplane she would fly. It was the American A-4B Skyhawk. Natalie wanted the fast French Mirage but so did everyone else. Now she was committed, personal thoughts or not.

Natalie. Forsaken

What They did to Nat's three friends was terrible. Abducted by the authorities in the middle of the night, taken against their will and ending their young existence. Hours of torture to get any info, put onto a plane and then...

 

Filipe was lying in his mother's arms. A caring embrace. No bond was stronger than a mother's and her child. Especially Catholic. Soon it would be time for his bed time story, after his nap...

 

Suddenly Filipe was jerked violently awake, his drug induced dream history. A huge noise over came him and he was so cold.  No sight. What? He was blindfolded and his limbs were bound. What was happening? Waves of unconscious started to drag him under again.

 

He was aware of men shouting and someone kicked him in the side. It didn't hurt due to the drugs. Before he passed out Filipe felt hands drag him to the noise and a feeling of flying engulfed the young political protestor, then swirling blackness claimed him. The drugs kicked in before the freezing ocean smashed his frail body.

 

Many perished this way. They were The Disappeared and were shot or drugged and thrown out of aircraft into the ocean, far from land. Filipe and his two female friends were only three among one thousand who were murdered this way, along with tens of thousands more who perished...

Natalie. Battle Maiden

Flying the Skyhawk was easy. Learning tactics wasn't. Aerial refuelling was hard, as was formation flying. Natalie grew up and lost her girliness. Inside she was a woman. Her view on the government remained. Should she bomb the junta in her plane? Thoughts of that were brushed aside when she was deployed near the Chilean border when tension increased in the long running border dispute.

Flying three armed patrols convinced Chile to stop sabre rattling and withdraw her soldiers. Nat was gaining experience. Public opinion was turning against the government, an ongoing crisis that needed expert handling. War was the answer. Not with Chile but in the Malvinas.

An army, armed to the teeth, sailed and was flown out. British resistance was subdued and Argentina took the Malvinas. Natalie and her squadron were on standby for action. Britain retaliated and UK ships headed south. Nat trained in anti ship attack. Soon her skills would be needed.

People were behind the war. Not questioning about The Disappeared or how to get rid of the evil junta. The Malvinas were finally ours and a joyous mood overtook many people. In the military, it was different. A real fight would soon erupt. The Brits were coming and Nat was scared. What had she got herself into?

Training continued and there was no time for her band, seeing her friends or little else. Not even secretly discussing how to help make the government fall with her fellow activists. It was a fine line of madness. An Argentine air force jet pilot with illegal views and rebellion songs.

She could change the history of her country, Argentina, forever. If she dropped a few bombs on the leaders, it was over. The new war, The Disappeared, the fear. All of it. Could she do it? Would she? Nat knew where the leaders were and would strike on her next armed training mission. Fate stopped her. Events moved quickly and the young warrior woman never had chance.

Nat did hear off Roberto. He was on the Malvinas in the infantry, untrained and with no dog tags. Film studies were still on his mind. It was the last she would ever hear of him. Being the only female pilot in a male squadron, Natalie took no crap. Her practise bombing scores were excellent. Weeks passed and war came.

Finally it was time. Taking off with three other jets to hit British shipping, Nat was facing her baptism of fire. Mid air refuelling gave gas to reach the target. With speed and surprise they attacked. Who would live and who would die?

Natalie. War Woman

The Royal Navy ship filled Natalie's gun sight. She fired her 20mm cannons and pulled up, dropping her bombs. With a sickening jolt they fell free and Nat lowered her nose, weaving her jet, flying away from the large ship. Tracer fire and a single missile raced past her. A faint boom indicated her bombs had gone off. Did she sink the enemy ship?

 

It was fly for her life. Sea Harriers were inbound. Natalie cursed her government for starting this evil war, for putting her in harms way and for killing her friends. It’s partly my fault, her mind screamed. You wanted to fly, not to fight and kill or be killed. Silly girl! Suddenly a warning was shouted over the radio. More voices and then silence. A Sea Harrier had shot down an A-4. Who was hit?

 

Nat just about made it to the Hercules tanker. She shook with fear. When she landed, her flight suit was drenched in sweat. Two jets were missing. Natalie had damaged a destroyer and killed British personnel. She was physically sick. Her Skyhawk had eight small bullet holes in it and this was only her first mission. The Medical Officer gave her the okay and she attended debriefing.

 

The next few days were critical. British ships had to be sunk and people killed to defeat the English. It was obvious to all; this would be a bitter fight. Air power had to defeat sea power. Nat flew another mission with mixed results, learning to temper her fear and use her skills and new experience. She saw her cannon fire rake a destroyer but her bombs missed, exploding either side of the ship.

 

Her third mission was her last over the Malvinas. On the hills above the bay, enemy guns and missiles were getting more lethal every day. Never mind the ships’ weapons and marauding Sea Harriers. Losses were several planes each day. Nat’s time was finally up. She hit a Royal Navy destroyer, blowing a big hole in it with her thousand pound bomb. There were many killed. Natalie never saw the wounded English gunner firing a 20mm cannon when she sped ten metres overhead.

 

Exploding shells slammed into her A-4 and Natalie almost lost control. Desperately she pulled up, avoiding slamming into the black cold water. A 20mm shell blew her lower left leg off. By a miracle she never passed out, the pain was something else. Blood filled the cockpit. Right there, she wanted to die. No more pain. Not physical or mental over her Disappeared friends. One simple shove of the controls and the sea would claim her...

Natalie. Mayo

In 2012 on the thirtieth anniversary of the Malvinas war, a muted celebration of remembrance was taking place in Buenos Aires. A band called Mayo were performing a gig and highlighting their new album. With songs of peace and above all else, a song about three missing teens from 1981. The singer was a middle aged woman called Natalie.

 

She was a very remarkable lady. By all accounts she should have been dead. Her final flight, with near total blood loss, in a crippled A-4B Skyhawk had passed into aviation legend. Even her former enemies had recognized her courage in making it back to base after being wounded. How she managed to rendezvous with the Hercules tanker was anyone’s guess. Maybe Nat had a guardian angel and her job wasn’t war but peace.

 

“I’m Natalie. Most of you know my story. How I love music and flying. And how I still follow those two passions and also a third one. That is PEACE. It was only after the fall of the junta that I learnt of the fate of my three friends. How they were abducted by the authorities, tortured, drugged and put on a Navy plane. Then flown an hour out to sea and thrown out, naked, from thirteen thousand feet. All perished.”

 

A huge crowd stood in silence, listening. Most were young, born after the junta years and Malvinas war and The Disappeared. However, their parents and older people remembered and many of these cried, remembering tens of thousands who were murdered. Most were innocent, a few guilty. All were killed.

 

“I could have stopped this by bombing the leadership. Now I know it would have been a suicide mission and they would have been replaced but people could have rose up and brought revolution. I never flew that mission. I was ordered to bomb British ships, this I did. The junta knew of my band Mayo and of my music. I believe they thought I’d be killed. I very nearly was. I lost a leg and have inner scars of those years. This song is for my three murdered friends. They are called Filipe, Anetta and Mahalia. I’d also like to dedicate this to my old enemy, whose men I killed and maimed. And to my own countrymen who were led to their deaths, especially young Roberto who never did make his films. For peace my friends, this song is for you...”

Natalie. An End

In 2012 on the thirtieth anniversary of the war, the dispute is still raging on who should own the Falkland/Malvinas Islands. With oil exploration in the area, both sides need to come together and talk.

The Argentine military junta started a war that killed almost a thousand people. This must never happen again. Never mind the tens of thousands of The Disappeared who were murdered for being a threat or having an opinion or different views or for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Natalie is a character of my imagination but in Argentina and in Britain and in every country upon this world, Nat has brothers and sisters who say NO to war and repression. Let Natalie’s voice always be heard and never ever silenced.

For Natalie, warrior woman turned warrior of peace.

Natalie. Natalie and Nick

I forgive you Ruby for hurting me. Now I must move on and go far away from you. I’m getting married to my warrior friend. Please don’t be mad with me. I think you’d approve and like Natalie. She loves gothic music and even has a band called Mayo, never mind her tattoos and love of flying. Like you, she speaks to me in my dreams. Unlike you, she won’t ever hurt me. I wish you happiness with your new flame, Ruby. I must go and meet my new bride.

What is it with dark haired girls? For Natalie, my kindred spirit who finishes my sentences and loves kebabs, as I do! I see myself inside of you and I see you in me. You, my dear Latino lady. My lover, my sister, my friend, my wife, mother of my children. Protector of my country, your country, our country. You showed me your world, a group of islands, South Atlantic. So beautiful, like you aged 18 in 1982 and now 48 in 2012. Malvinas, Falklands. Our home.

I hold your hand and see the waves lap at the shore, eternal movement. Like the planets. Oh Natalie, we shouldn’t be together. We are. You the Argentinean lady, me the English guy. Enemies no more. Later, you’ll take me flying in your red Spanish two seat stunt plane. We’ll touch the aquamarine blue and loop the loop, fly low over the ocean free as a bird and stall turn like a butterfly. I’ll protect you from repression and pain my dear wife. Forever.

If we can be happy and at peace, so can our two countries. Let them learn from us. Peace and love, born from the war that cost you a leg. Nearly your life. Now a new life grows slowly in your belly. If he’s a boy, we’ll call him Roberto, if a girl, Mahalia. In memory of your lost Disappeared friends and Roberto. 

Natalie. Roberto

Oh my dear friend Roberto. I remember back to our time, when we made love. Not the last time but the time before. When you were doing your college film studies and were so happy on your future. It was you who said, “Nat, I’ll make the best film ever made.” And his dear eyes were so full of passion, life and innocence. And a love so powerful, I cried, right there. A love of life, film, his country and lastly, for me. I knew then in that moment Roberto loved me. Maybe more than all the other things. How was that possible?

I replied to his film statement. “Tell me, what film will you make Roberto?” Those precious eyes clouded over. I heard him whisper: “Why Natalie, I’ll make the film about you. A small story about you, how you’re in a band and love to fly in your red stunt plane. My film is about you Natalie.”

I was utterly speechless. Those close to me, and anyone who cared to listen, knew my voice was always in motion, just like the ocean. He looked at me. That moment is still with me over thirty years later. I never did reply to him. I embraced him and cried tears of joy. For him and for a love I had but never dared admit to myself, till Roberto died in a British artillery barrage weeks later. I was in love with him. He has no known grave.

Was his body found and marked ‘Unknown Argentine Soldier’ because he had no dog tags? Those beautiful innocent eyes are gone forever. I can’t remember what colour your eyes are!

Oh my dear Roberto, I say it now. Every day since you were killed in battle, I say aloud my love for you. Even now I’m married to Nick and with him, he understands. His words bring clarity to me when I weep for you, dear Roberto. A life stolen by war, unfulfilled. You never did make your film about me, never completed your film course or chased your dreams. All dreams shattered by Them, those who forced you to join our army to fight the English.

I quietly say to myself, your end was fast and you never suffered. I don’t know exactly where you lost your young life, just the area. I’ve been there to see with my own eyes. I felt you were nearby to me. Are you still earth bound my love? Are you? I sense that you are. Please be happy for me and my new family. I wanted all this with you but war stole you from me, forever.

At least now I have someone who should hate me for what I did to his countrymen and who listens to my incoherent words about you Roberto. It shouldn’t be Nick wiping away my tears, it should be you. Please stay close to me. I have to move on from those awful times. I dedicate my life to peace. Please understand my lost friend.

Natalie. San Carlos Water

Pieces of flotsam and jetsam floated on the early evening tide. Turning this way and that, always in motion. Never still, each bit jostling with the other for a foothold on the sand, being denied by the rolling water. Little bits of detritus in the ocean. In time, all would be land born and still, stranded for awhile till the next high tide.

 

On a large rock something slowly smouldered, gentle orange flames framed by the setting sun. A sepia photograph of a past event. By a sheltered pool, more fire slowly flickered before petering out, forever. Extinguished by a gentle spring breeze that blew in from nowhere, adding to this once perfect scene, now disturbed by another event.

 

Several people had rushed to the beach, after seeing it happen. They pointed and talked, their attention drawn to three ruined objects tossed haphazardly onto the shore. On closer inspection, the broken things were distinguishable from everything else. One person was sick and looked away with a grim expression. A smell of iron and gasoline filled the air, further spoiling what was almost paradise.

 

A red fragment of debris foundered upon the shore. Two men waded into the surf and dragged the unwieldy bit of smashed metal ashore. One gained a nasty gash upon his hand. Salt water stung his wound and he swore. His blood indistinguishable from the ruined aeroplane, binding him to this scene. Finally reaching the damp sand they dropped their find, seemingly more important than the other flotsam.

 

“It belongs to them. I can read ‘Mayo’ on the metal. Look, there,” one of the two said. His colleague nodded. Other people gathered around the men, needing to see for themselves proof of what it was. As if the three broken bodies weren’t evidence enough. Like acid eating away a pretty face, everyone knew the awful truth. Nobody dared to utter the obvious. As if committing war and sinfully acquiring a place in hell?

 

Exceedingly slowly, the sun set and coloured the bay at San Carlos Water a beautifully vivid red. All present would remember this moment for all eternity. One old soldier limped over to his daughter. He wasn’t afraid to speak, being battle hardened on this very island. “I watched Natalie’s red stunt plane loop and roll in this sky, not an hour ago. I never saw her fly like that; she looked just like a bird. Then they came apart mid air and fell into the sea.”

 

“No dad, it’s not the same sky you saw Nat fly in. Her sky was always blue. This red sky is one of death. Somebody great died here doing something she loved, along with her family. Natalie loved peace. She would want to be remembered for that, as a free spirit who stood for peace. Her sky will always be blue, no matter what happens dad. Forever,” replied the soldier’s girl. He knew she spoke the truth. Everybody did.

 

Only God knew what happened when Natalie did aerobatics in her precious little Spanish stunt plane named Mayo. Did she overstress her airplane pulling out of a loop? Nothing except broken smashed fragments remained, including Natalie’s fractured body. Her husband Nick and their young son Roberto were equally disfigured; so ferocious was Mayo’s airborne structural failure. Three lives selfishly stolen by death.

 

“You’re right, Natalie’s sky is always blue. It wasn’t good. I’ve not seen anything as bad since the war way back in eighty two,” nodded the ex British soldier. His gaze took in the scene before him and his daughter: people attempting to drag bits of Mayo out of the shallow water. Closer still and the final flames flicked out, turning to smoke; he wanted to ignore difficult attempts to save the bodies. It was like their old war and as wrong.

 

“We must continue her work. Her and Nick and Roberto would want that. We must keep their passion for peace alive, forever. We must do this for them and all of us. We must never forget what happened here, forty years ago. So it never happens again. And always remember that Natalie was part of war and then peace. We always must believe,” replied his daughter. Her tears fell at San Carlos Water...

Happens

Why do I feel so disjointed in my usual way in the place where I almost belong? We were almost together my love. Because I panicked and thought you don’t want to know me, you went and found someone else. Leaving me down in the darkness, alone.

Weeks later when we talk, you say that you wish we had met. My views too. Come on over I say, we belong together. We both know it. We feel fate brought us together and this hasn’t run its course. I’ll see you in future when you’re single again. In the meantime I’m seeing a gal at weekend, it feels wrong but hey, I’ve been here before. With the wrong gal.

And in a few weeks time when we do meet, you’ll introduce me to your mates and hopefully my pagan wife will be there. Forget the new gal I’m meeting, you’re my High Priestess who protects me from myself and the evils of life. We’ll always be close my dear, please know that I love you and wish you well. Pagan to pagan.

Eclipsing Karin’s Fracture

Fracture lines of frantic events. Pretty little German girl named Karin Ulbricht. Leipzig late 1989, events so much bigger than just a mere pretty beautiful little lady. Daring to demonstrate for freedom, do you FUCKING know what you’re doing? Do you? Chasing a dream, not knowing what it is. 

BUT YOU FEEL IT IN YOUR BONES.

And know that you’re right, being in Leipzig, on THAT night. Voicing your opinion by your actions and words, you and your friends. Oh when I saw you on TV voicing your version of that night, I was caught in your rapture. I tried to find you and failed. My postcard with a Spitfire seaplane on, addressed to you in Dresden, remained unanswered. I so wanted to hear your views and talk to you, you a REAL Cold War warrior. A heroine of peace and freedom.

Dear Karin, do you know what would have happened if a single gunshot had destroyed the peace that night? What happened when you were all arrested and taken to the barracks in Leipzig, gals separated from guys? You could have all been murdered. Nazi and Stassi style. For what, peace?

All I know is that on TV you looked heartbreakingly pretty. Tell me my dear warrior woman, what date was you interviewed? Are you still as pretty and brave and vulnerable? Do I dare chase an impossible silly dream of being your friend and more? Two awful World Wars and a Cold War, Karin. Don’t you know, I’m part German?

My Pagan Goddess will bring you to me, if fate and destiny allows it. Peace my dear angel.

Witch

Witch gal hurt me so very much, not by her spells or High Priestess ways. Nor vainly trying to save me from myself. She can't stop my darkness, nor can she see my blood flow when darkness takes my happiness, adding to how she hurt me. But I forgive her, totally and unconditionally. I'm no longer a Nazi nor do I break people’s legs if they wrong me. I never once did a spell to hurt a fucking soul.

I left my Craft alone for so many years, became a real lost soul. Like the ones I write on, in my dark poems. Crossing lines. I never asked for so many things. Oh what a joyous list: being born, being different, being misunderstood and having war fighting ability with fists, weapons and words.

Above all, I never asked to live in a world of selfish people who are fucking cunts, where nations go to war and kill thousands for oil, where my life is a tragic ash filled ruin. And I never asked for the gift of writing so I could share my shit with all of YOU. Do my new spells stop my rot, guide me from my path of destruction, where SHE helped me on my way?

SHE filled the fuel tank on my broken warplane when I flew off on my suicide mission. Oh, I hope she remembers me after I blocked her for being like all of the others...                                                                                                                                          

Bleat

I blame you for all my maladies                                                                                                       and strife in life.                                                                                                                              Have a nice day.                                                                                                                         Bend over and meet Mr Meat.                                                                                                              You fucking sheep!

Cyn

I look at you from across the ocean and wonder what are you thinking? Will you like my poem and my words when you read it? Would it be like a poem that you write, if you choose to do one? A collection of words, each unique as you are, all with meaning when joined together. Many things are different but many are similar. You like cakes and ice hockey. Part of your individuality. What else do you like? Music and films? Happy or sad? The years of your life traced thru a love of songs, remembering the good times but wanting to forget the bad. Just how I am. Do you think life gets harder as we get older, not easier? Broken hearts are for the young, not the old, as are hangovers. Tell me my friend, do my mere words do you justice? Wishing you well, my simple poem for you :)

Joy

My dear mother I know I was a bit of a teen rebel in my younger formative years. Those were heady days and I carry that spirit with me now, when I see my team, Laredo Bucks, I'm that younger girl again. Raising hell and having fun but in a good way. A way I know you'd approve of. Even before my teens, when I was your little girl, you cared for me and loved me. Bringing me up right, you and dad. If you'd of both never met, I'd not be here. You're my world and I love you both very much. More than you know.

 

Oh how it hurts me, the grief I carry to see you tore apart by Alzheimer’s, an awful thing. One of life's cruel little tricks. But this will make me love and care for you even more. I know dad is still with me and watching over me, as he does you, even though he has passed over. His guiding hands are close. I know he shares my joy at seeing my team win, like I feel joy when you smile. Small simple pleasures in life. To be remembered.

 

Forever. I bear the hardship of caring for you, with positivity and happiness. Even on the tough days, where tears are close and there's so much to do. Everything is fine. I do this for you, my dear mum. You cared for me for so long with love, now I do this for you. The circle is complete. Complete with love, always eternal unconditional love.

Ouch!

In my dream I listen to the best of Heart, Ann Wilson really rocking out.

Who'll You Run To? and All I Wanna Do reminding me of my dear ex wife.

Why do I dream of her? Is it to show me I have nothing now?

 

No wife, no family, no house, no car, no job and no happiness?

I can't describe how it affected me at 6am in the morning.

A mental block provided by an angel protects me from oblivion.

 

I had it all in my perfect marriage to a white witch.

We did it all: witchcraft and spells, holidays abroad, get tattooed, see live bands, make love and lots more.

 

My mental health failed me, us. I ruined you and me, do you forgive me?

My dream shows me what I lost fifteen years ago. What I have now.

Unable to get a girlfriend or job in my time back in Oldham, I'm a special case.

 

What has Beth achieved in the last two decades?

 

I know my writing and tattoos and love of Goth music and occasional darkness will eclipse her.

She gave me my paganism, what did I give her?

 

We don't speak now. Thanks Heart.

Word of?

What planet are you from?

Do you return home to see your loved ones?

I'm sure you miss them.

I'd miss my wife if I was eight light years away from my beloved.

 

Let alone missing my beer drinking brother.

If I remember, it was his round.

That was a decade ago, before I was posted to Desert World Two with its cold cobalt snow and methane sky.

 

Heartbreakingly beautiful like you my dear wife.

I wish you were here holding my hand and feeling love,

a love so powerful and pure that your tears would freeze,

in awe of the remote view and my love for you.

 

In time, when we rendezvous by the third moon,

I'll give you a guided tour of DW2.

Then we can make love in an asteroid belt as your lilac coloured starship glides serenely by on autopilot.

 

Time with you my dear wife as we fly slowly back home,

no rush for light speed travel.

My research completed here, I'll crash a beer with my pal, his round.

 

My next space mission will be a joint one.

I'll only go if my wife can go along. I love her so.

Old Skool

We went to your old school,

in an area where crime is rife and drug dealers think they rule the streets.

What do you think when you see your old school?

Are your memories good or bad?

Were you bullied like me? Or have lots of friends?

Do you want to go back in time and spend a day in your school,

in your favourite lesson?

If so, what lesson?

Academic or physical or both?

Have you made something of your life based on your schooling?

When we met I was impressed by you,

I think you've done well my friend.

Post

Off to the Post Office to have some fun at their expense. The price of stamps is disgraceful, 50p for 2^nd class and 60p for 1^st. Not even a pop star would pay that amount, it’s a travesty. Money be damned, it’s a matter of principle.                                 

I’ve got my quick set concrete and ten litres of water to sabotage your computers and jam your doors.                                                                                                                            Spend a few hours stuck inside your P.O. and contemplate the cost of stamps. I promise you, it’ll be time well spent.                                                                              

 

I near the building, walking nonchalantly along, all the time in the world. I’m not the one with the problem, the money grabbers host the problems. My job is to open peoples’ eyes.                                                                                                    

 

The revolution starts here. My other ‘equipment’ is indoors. Soon to be used.

Hall of Memories

Have you ever noticed how fast the years pass?

Like a speeding car zooming thru the countryside,

catching fleeting glimpses of objects becoming something.

 

What?

 

Such is the impression when I get a job in the bakery,

twelve years after I quit.

My eyes open, who's still there; looking for a friendly familiar face.

Ah! There's Karen, who I knew way back when.

 

We slow danced at the works do and I left with her mate, Cass.

My marriage ended that night.

Fabulous forbidden sex with a foreign bird.

Cass vacated the bakery, oh well.

 

Karen asks do I have a kid?

Yes I do but things never worked out.

Now I'm on the market, looking.

I have anyone and I'm single, is her reply.

 

I file this.

 

Maybe Friday at hers?

A tour of the factory brings it all back.

In 1980 I started in this very spot, Rose Bakery.

Something got inside me, hard to describe.

What, a promise of romance on Chorley packing

or popping my cherry on a Bakewell tart, with a hussy?

 

Oh my, the things I did then.

What of now and Karen?

So and So

You can't put someone's life back together when you break it.

You can't give life when you take it.

You can love another person unconditionally and forever.

You can bring another joy and happiness. Peace.

Vodka

Oh how you hurt me dear lady, making me drink all the vodka in the world. What do I do when all of the vodka has gone? I hate whisky with a vengeance. Is it possible to hate you that much? Shall I try or do I remain a gentleman? I've never hurt you directly, only indirectly with my drinking due to having a broken heart.

 

You caused that.

 

If you gave me some superglue I can try to repair this ruined heart of mine. Bit by shattered bit. Unless it’s eaten away by vodka. It took away my pain, your legacy to me.                                                    

 

A gift I never wanted. I wanted your love and companionship.                                                         

 

Not war, hurt or pain. Now I’ll try to put my life back together. My first step is calling at the off licence. I feel a drink of brandy coming on, now vodka doesn't exist.

 

I drank it all because of you.

Sand River

I walk upon the sand river road leading to work.

What is work? Answer me. I'll tell you.

It's not being with her, the gal who did the actions.

Now a memory of what? Sand?

 

I walk onwards to my destiny, to others who want me. Need me. Will have me.

Maybe I'll see another over the cake packing line like dear Leanna from Greece.

Will packing cakes solve her country's debt? Sell some F-16s maybe. I'll buy one for a shiny new penny.

 

Head in the clouds that are made of sand. A sand cloud.

 

I'm off to Peterborough on Sunday to see a Asian pagan lady. I attract strange gals. Let's go for coffee.

 

I know you'll treat me better than the girl made of sand. What will become of me? Whatever you're thinking, don't! Sand river for sand people like me.

What?

What did I do to deserve this?

Ruined life with broken buildings as my friends,

bomb craters my companions.

Single two years in-between meeting broken gals.

Like attract like.

What now?

More of the same?

Heal or wound my heart?

wondering who I'm going to be
suddenly its all so clear
I'M HAPPY BEING ME

 

 

 

 

Berlin

We’re going to Tango in Berlin, in the bar where we met. You the nice lady called Becca who has your parents’ names tattooed on your hand. How quaint in 21^st Century Berlin, Europe’s second best city, after London. I saw your ink and knew you wanted more.                                                                                                    

I got my tattoo gun out and we became intimate, talking about our lives and dreams over your new tattoo.                                                                                                                               I won’t take any money from you but I’ll accept your love, if you want. In return I promise to love you, dance close with you and put you upon a pedestal.

People watch us, me the tattooist, you my tattooed Fraulein. We both know why we’re left alone, in the corner by the antique record machine.                                                                                           

It plays our songs.                                                                                                                                          

Your face is disfigured by shrapnel and you only have one breast, courtesy of a terrorist bomb. I love you for you and I’m glad there’s no competition trying to steal you from me.                      

We belong together.

And your new tattoo belongs in your collection. A black dragonfly flying over a blackened moon. You and me baby, in a bar called Tango located in East Berlin.

Tokyo

You came to me on (upon) the surface of a dream.

Wave rider, like the experimental aircraft. Unlike the exotic plane,

I hope you're not lost at sea at the end of your mission.

Will our mission take us to Tokyo?

Berlin Tokyo Warhearts, Children of Bodom style, heavy metal city.

 

No war here.

 

Are you ready for ultimate high speed, high altitude flight?

No Mamma Bird B-52 mother ship will launch you into near Low Earth Orbit.

No escape velocity here, we dance close in an oriental bar summer 2012.

Did you know my father was in Tokyo, back in ‘46?

Different world, same planet.

 

Let's go and see the sights.

Get me a traditional old skool tap tap tattoo,

go to the Kamikaze museum.

Did they really wear crash helmets?

 

Tokyo gal take me to the city that never sleeps,

neon high tech beyond belief.

Alien city here on Earth.

 

Cool as hell,

especially when we get the bullet train to see Garbage.

Shirley Manson still looks good rocking out.

Japanese Goth clubs are something else entirely.

 

Tokyo.

Warhearts

A girl.

A guy.

Become one.

She works in the bar.

He drinks in the bar.

They leave in his car.

He drives.

She's his passenger.

Down dark roads they travel.

To where?

Not their normal route.

Venturing here or there.

All in the air from here.

Something went wrong.

His car left the road.

Down an embankment.

Upside down in the river.

No crash barrier?

Trapped in the car.

Assistance came.

Off duty rookie cop.

Rookie no more after this crash.

Cop couldn't get the girl out due to the car being inverted.

Tried to save the girl.

Unable to give her air.

Got her drunken boyfriend to do it.

Her pulse increased.

For a while.

A battle lost.

Would it have been easier if the car was upright?

Boyfriend loses it.

She can't die!

She does.

Choice made.

Drink and drive.

Crash and murder your girlfriend.

Just like that.

A life taken due to stupidity.

How many times did this happen and he got away with it?

Not this time.

Throw the book at him.

Karma will screw him over.

Both man's and God's.

Lynette is dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                               of somewhere no one knows

the beginning is coming
of a journey no-one sees
come and take this journey
walk along with me