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, 5th 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...
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.
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...
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?
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.
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....
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
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 2nd class and 60p for 1st. 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?
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 21st 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.
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