Long poem by
nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Details |
Kahlia Akasha Is Back
We armed our jet with 8 anti ship missiles. Every single under wing weapon pylon was spoken for. Under fuselage drop tank full of fuel, in front of that a twin barrel 30mm gun with 200 armour piercing shells. We where forward based on a dusty coastal track in southwest India.
The Pak navy sank the Indian aircraft carrier and Sea Harriers so we can’t use her as a springboard. On the beach, fuel topped up, weapons armed, final checks done. We took off heading west to engage the Pakistan navy. To sink their ex British and American destroyers. Just as they sank the ex Brit carrier India had used. Mad.
Nice low slow cruise 50ft above the choppy fog laden sea. 200knots, 220mph. She would touch 530mph but we had to go slow, we had 8 ships to kill. My wife flew our plane in the back cockpit. I caressed the juicy missiles below our stealth fighter plane. Used infrared to scan ahead, just ghostly images hidden by the fog. I tried the laser range finder, so many readings due to the shifting fog. Radar! Two scans, off. There! The 1st Pak navy ship, a Type21 Frigate ex Royal Navy. Let’s do an Argy and sink it! Our Chain Head missiles are better than Exocet, 25yrs ahead in tech and lethality.
My wife kept our jet 50ft above the ocean, our grave if she hated me. I confirmed, 'Missile 1 locked on, missile 2 ready to lockup any new target,' then my lady lifted our port wing. Unbalancing me, just illusion. Enough room for our weapon to launch without hitting the sea, our right wing 20ft above the sea! A big wave would swamp us. Mad!
Away! Orange bright flare devil roar missile away. Radar on again to sweep ahead, weapon merging with Pak ship 80 miles ahead. Time to turn gently away; we have 7 more ships to find in the fog and coming night. We’re a ghost unseen below enemy radar, slow to save fuel we have forever to do our job. Sink the Pak navy. Any survivors in the water will get 30mm shells if we don’t shoot up any ships still afloat. Let’s hope our missiles work, I don’t want to strafe some drowning men, let the sea slowly claim them.
Our black painted Soviet prop jet fighter slides through the evening fog as a distant orange flash flares and dies. 7 anti ship missiles left. We’ll evade their 40yr old mirage jets...
This story/poem is my 4th Kahlia Akasha one, the others being in my 3rd book A Nation in Flames: Short Story Collection, out to order on amazon. This warplane is multi role including nuclear capable. Her real title is Aeroprogress T-720. She was never built due to the death of the cold war. This looks to be starting again. Would she be reborn, even more dangerous and deadly? After all the Russians will need a replacement for the Sukhoi Su-25 Frogfoot, a 30yr old attack jet. They lost several, blown out of the sunny Georgian skies in August 2008. Georgian missiles shot them down, David fighting Goliath. Would my Kahlia Akasha escape being shot down over Georgia? We’ll never know. She is stealth capable, has active radar jamming system, chaff and flares to decoy missiles, extreme performance and agility, small size, high technology. She isn’t invulnerable but more survivable than a Frogfoot. All I have are my own design studies, theoretical. I ask what if?
Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex
Long poem by
Andrea Dietrich | Details |
As one who grew up in a different era,
Pre-Brangeline and Californication -
When shows like Laugh-in or the Dating Game,
Bewitched or Dick Van Dyke were just about
The naughtiest you’d find on your TV -
I'm now chillaxin' with some shows much better!
Despite the violence and the sexploitation,
There’s education everywhere you look.
The singers I once listened to and loved
Are now discussed in rockumentaries!
And if you like your information spicy,
Try faction on the channels like I.D.
My father used to hog our TV set,
And Wild Kingdom we’d all have to watch.
But how much funner now to click on channels
That show the strangest creatures in the world
Like tigons, zedonks, geeps and beefalo!
And if your labradoodle can’t be trained,
You’ll find a whisperer to show you how.
The woolaroc of nature can be viewed
In brilliant colors, sometimes in 3-D!
You’re not confined to black and white, 3 channels!
Today they’re watching on ginormous screens
Or tiny cell phones held inside your hand.
The workout shows like those of Jack LaLanne
Have been replaced by countless infomericals
With hints fantabulous for keeping young.
From jazzercise to tips of Dr. Oz,
You’ll learn to make yourself be bootylicious.
Your mental health is not neglected either,
With folks like Dr. Phil to fill you in!
Whether you’re a hasbian or shemale,
A fugly guy, a horder, or a crackhead,
There’s someone on TV to speak to YOU.
Reality TV may not be smart,
But it can come in handy if you need
To learn some Splanglish or pick up a blaccent.
The shows on cable redefine our world,
Teach tolerance and much improve one’s gaydar.
You learn that metrosexuals use manbags
And guys like Blake and Adam on the Voice
Give hugs because they simply have a bromance.
To people saying that TV today
Has gone to pot, I say, “Well, that’s ok!”
My DVR is working day and night,
So I can get the best of edutainment!
Examples of Portmanteaus Used in My Poem:
Brangeline: Brad Pit and Angelina Jolie
Californication: California and fornication
Chillaxin: chilling and relaxing
Sexploitation: exploitation of sex
Rockumentaries: Documentaries about Rock music
Faction: fact mixed with fiction (exaggeration)
Tigons: a tiger/lion zedonk: a zebra donkey
Geep: a goat sheep Beefalo: A cow buffalo
Labradoodle: Labrador poodle
Woolaroc: woods, lakes and rocks
Ginormous: gigantic and enormous
Infomericals: informational commercials
Fantabulous: Fantastic plus fabulous
Jazzercise: jazz exercise
Bootylicious: delicious booty(behind)
Hasbian: temporary (has been) lesbian
She-man: just what you think!
Fugly: F-ing ugly
Crackhead: someone on crack cocaine
Blaccent: black accent
Gaydar: gay radar
Metrosexuals: metropolitan heterosexuals
Manbags: purses used by men
Bromance: romance between Bro’s (male friends)
Edutainment: education that is entertaining!
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich
Long poem by
lucky okoedion | Details |
Tens of decades of being spoon-fed or feeling helpless enough
To surrender to strangers your leadership of culture and technology is not a generosity,
But an exaggerated excuse of inherited slavery mentality; the Ironical simplicity
Of not thinking forward enough,
Of not feeling good enough,
Of not talking top enough,
Of not standing tall enough,
Of not acting bold enough,
Of not knowing that standing alone
To fall and stand again to fall and stand tall alone
Is practice-worthy enough
In order to remain tall.
When will Africa build
her own world and refuse
to stay down her hand for fear of mistakes and the inevitable growth-process failures?
and when will Africa learn
to dream her own dreams; I mean to be content within the realm
where her programs only bear her own DNA signatures,
where she no longer boasts shamefully of borrowed inventions that eternally refuse
to fit into the African context, that threaten to make us aliens of our true nature -
incompatible alien social formulas that make our social engineering confused ?
Let’s cure ourselves of this cultural dislocation and intellectual humiliation.
When the inevitable barbarity of the crude form of our culture’s past is so glaring,
that we won’t but be irrational not to admit it,
who said it is something to be ashamed of?
Let them name a culture without a crude origin,
and I will show them a culture without a past, which is a culture that doesn’t exist.
Or let them show me an Africa who condemns its crude past,
and I will show them an Africa which has learnt.
An Africa which has learnt
is the only Africa which can repent:
an Africa which has learnt to infuse
indigenous technology into all offerings she receives from the brothers around the globe,
is the only Africa which can build an African Africa.
Else she becomes a make-fit of a foreign cultural robe.
No civilization ever grew out of vacuum,
but on the shoulders of others
to tower higher.
So it’s not a sin that Africa borrows culture today,
and that she condemns her crude past.
It only means a giant is in the making.
And it shall come to pass that out of these raw materials we are borrowing,
we shall build a black civilization and socialization
that will not like the former be sincerely shame-spoken of,
but that shall know no equal,
and that shall be the highest export commodity in the world.
And Pan African is our formula.
There’s no genius without ingenuity,
there is no prosperity, whether economic or cultural
without indigenous Technology.
I can never help you to be better than me
unless you’re my next of kin,
and no continent is another’s next of kin.
Copyright © lucky okoedion
Long poem by
Zachary Alvstad | Details |
Forget words, we've forgot how to feel
Western medicine, we've forgot how to heal
Longer life expectancies, but without any zeal
Living longer just to live longer, what's the appeal?
Why would you ever live a life less than ideal?
Playin' double dutch with reality & surreal
Here we go with another one of my spiels...
Let's imagine a day without a word said
Let's imagine a day without thoughts in your head
Let's imagine a day with all expectations shed
Just actions, seems it'd be hard to be misread
Do you see how we make things complicated?
Speak the same language but need it translated
Unrealistic mediums of keeping in touch...
Hey, hi, what's up, how are you?
What happened to just chatting over lunch?
Pretty good... Chillin', yeah me too...
No such thing as plans, someone might text me
"I'll let you know", we have to keep a plan B
Some of y'all probably string along three
Dreamin' about the days before technology
When you had to be where you said you'd be
That's what you call a T.B.T.
I see the followers, yeah you got a bunch
How many you seen in the last few months?
How long can we use instant gratification as a crutch?
Social media, the FOMO illusion, how much is too much?
Dramatized highlight reels of our lives
Look at me, look at me, I'm alive, I've arrived
Perfect little story, just how you contrived
Elephant in the room, the antithesis of live
Let's just upload consciousness to a hard drive
Seen friends waste hours in paradise editing pics
Just to post them in hope of some double clicks
These habits have turned into Tourette's tics
Sucking the essence from the moment, the "present" tick
MySpace, Facebook, snapchat, Twitter, Instagram
What's next? It's all just one big sham
The egos favorite invention, that & the front cam
I'll apologize now for these next lines ma'am
Some of you girls confused about what's a shirt
Tits & Ass out, actin' surprised by perverts
The spice is gone when everyone's seen what's for dessert
You aren't foolin anyone, it's oh so overt
Guys, know the difference between flirt & thirst
You're not Drake, your behaviors actually the worst
Put your phone up, be available & alert
Bet you'll wish you would've at the end of your days
Can we all agree to quit recording concerts?
You'll never go back & re-watch it anyways
Fuck it, this is probably just an inert curt blurt
Distress signals, mayday mayday mayday
Copyright © Zachary Alvstad
Long poem by
Su Ben | Details |
Everyone, from children to grownups,
carry the world in their hands, they see the past
and the future simply by the move of their thumbs and fingers;
from their very spot they fly in the air hanging onto the mixture of
illusion and reality.
The little glass plate they are staring at is,
though, a two dimensional world, they go
beyond the fourth dimension and reach the world of infinity,
the time of conception to death, while creating a totally anew concept
of time that is a mixture of kairos and chronos.
Because you see everything at the same time
in this little glass plate, layer after layer of thickened image
starts to fall to cause the chaos, the distorted image crumbles.
When a child finds Hydra in the little flat glass plate he held,
he challenges Hydra, and after a long difficult fight, though
he cuts a head off from this great serpent, a drop of blood
numbs the child, with venom spitting out from the mouths
of the remaining heads it deadens the child. Then, after all,
the Hydra’s blood and venom overtake the child’s shrunken brain,
the child becomes a fierce monster himself.
For a grownup,
while watching Laokoon and his two children locked in the coils of
hissing snakes, agonizing. He undergoes unbearable torment himself,
as if Laokoon was tortured by the snakes, stretching his arms in the air
to grab something that may lessen the intensity of horror.
From the touch of smooth
but cold skin of the snake,
he shudders, he frightens, he feels death.
The child, comes and goes from here to yonder world in no time,
led by the move of his fingertip, he came and sat with the devil
face to face, tries to trade junk the devil offers with his soul, though
immature, he is therefore reckless, but innocent.
The grownup who haunted by anguish,
walks on the path of life and death, because
he is unable to shake off the bad-omen he carries;
is now sitting in front of a poker table and through
the little flat glass plate in his palm, gazing at the numbers
on the playing cards; he irons his ragged soul with steaming-hot-iron
for external appearance, the soul that even the devil won’t take in
pledge for filthy lucre.
It’s outrageous but,
all generations alive today, seem to be confined
in the little flat glass plate, they live as the slave of the fingertip.
Copyright © Su Ben
Long poem by
Mark J. Halliday | Details |
(3 May 2014; For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)
Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?
Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.
What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,
And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.
And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.
Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian,
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)
Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.
It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.
All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.
But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.
To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Copyright © Mark J. Halliday
Long poem by
nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Details |
from Juniper’s Daughter:
War Is Obsolete – Futility and Hope
By Nick Armbrister
Caught Up In a Fairy Tale
My dreams haunt me as does the music, drunk I dance to the mesmerizing tales told by the songs of 25 years ago, as real now as back then. The heady rush of the moment takes me and lifts me up ever so high until my primeval fear snatches my euphoria away like committing an armed robbery on a child for his sweets.
Cold war nightmare returns with a dozen vengeances as I dare to lift the veil of the nightmare, I only wanted to peek inside! Nena and Frankie got it right in their two songs 99 Red Balloons and Two Tribes. We really did live in a nightmare but with such erotic desires - do anything you want do coz after they drop the bomb and nuke us all in World War3 no one will be left to care or give a damn.
I hear my mother ask me what you want for Xmas son. Mother I want this... to go back to Xmas in 1986 and to see a nuclear war, for the Warsaw pact/Soviet forces to come across the Fulda gap and the north German plain. For NATO to stop their conventional forces with tactical nukes after air power fails, the heady rush of nuclear escalation killing us all, overwhelming our planet irradiating our world darkening our skies with nuclear mushroom clouds.
On and on and on I writhe in ecstatic enjoyment seeing the work of the devil thru Christian believing Western men bringing on the end of their, our, world stopping the heathen red menace with all they’ve got. You see it was a matter pride not common sense that made them react they were trained well.
Now after watching my Xmas gift, I ask to go home. I hear no reply. Slowly it dawns on me, I can’t go home and there is no home. Just an irradiated world stuck in Xmas 1986, totally destroyed. What did I wish for? Am I dreaming a nightmare that I’m stuck in, did the veil fall after I looked inside drawing me in a prisoner?
I can say what a f*ckin' rush, I don’t need drugs they’re for pussies I just need my Cold War music and my mind that is like a television. On and on the music plays as the Pershing 2 and Cruise Missiles launch as F-16s and other jets battle it out in the winter heavens as the countdown to the end begins.
Who said the darkness wasn’t fun? Who did win in the end of the world?
Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex
Long poem by
Troy Nelson | Details |
heres how i see it
and heres how it is
living in this world where half of it is advanced
with indoor plumbing
and a huge chunk of the globe is not
part of the world still has a hole in the floor for a toilet
and we say ignorance is bliss
oh funny funny man on the moon
the joke you really meant in the Hollywood basement
of one giant step for man
and one leap for mankind
Have we not clued in yet?
Do we not live blind leading the blind?
Am i the only enlightened who realizes
that we were in space probably 70 years before we made it public to the world
and Nasa is full of it
oh funny funny funny man on the moon
why is society so gullible to think
that the governments technology hits the mainstream market
before they use it for years and perfect it and work out all the bugs
and then hands us something that just looks faulty
and we fall for it hook line and sinker
give me a moment
funny funny funny us
half the world buries their waste
and we flush it away
half the world has technology and half of it is in the stone age
and yet we seem to think
that whoever invents these things has no ties
or affiliation to putting us under their thumb
i mean come on do the math
they landed on the moon
how they tell you they send sattelites into space is a truth within alie
they made up 50 years ago
and were falling for it today
let me play
i get it
society is dumb
I'll write something yesterday
say i wrote it today
no one will know what to believe
I'll even put a cowboy hat on
I'm sure those cowboy western movies
they had just as many cameras and cellphones
but didn't release them in the market
consider yourself a fool
if you don't think they don't have something in their pocket full of tricks they are
working on right now
they're going to sell to the future
and no one gets the famous joke
the man on the moon told to the mensa geniuses
but a hush fell over the crowd
and I'm sure there was consequences for laughing
and chances are even they were blinded by the bling
life and blind leading the blind
such an easy concept to grasp
and man on the moon
your a funny funny funny man!
Copyright © Troy Nelson
Long poem by
Rosy Love | Details |
The Generation Gap
The fragile, flawless ice encased
the crumbling soil below
And with it brought bitter winter’s taste –
the seed that wouldn’t grow.
Many a foggy year ago,
the father had bought the plant
Had carried it, through the ice and snow,
to his little son’s wish, grant.
Once again, the son was staring, eyes hollow,
at the seed that could not be a winner,
Wondering if fruitless years would follow –
when his dad called him to dinner.
The father nodded at his presence,
hen lowered his head at the thing
Staring at the lifeless, immobile pleasance
ike a puppet on ends of a string.
Email after email - would the work never end?
His fingers flew across the screen.
At least the son’s phone would make up –
material had to be the dream of every teen.
The son accidentally brushed the screen
and rock music exploded resounding
The dad jumped and yelled at the opposite teen
of the terribly insistent pounding.
The teen shouted horribly red-faced
that it was most heartbreakingly sad
That the rule he’d once taught - don’t work while you eat –
was forgotten by his dad.
The silence that hung impenetrable in the air
was broken by the sharp creak of chairs
As they were pushed back by the pair –
then the loud pound of feet on the stairs.
The dad shut himself into his room,
sucked in a lungful of air
Then lay down in the musty gloom
to, at his long-gone father’s photo, stare.
His young father winked at him through the glass,
a poster of James Dean on the wall
With a jolt he recalled that in the past
his father had loved James Dean’s bawl.
But then came the time when he grew mad
and screamed and yelled at stars
His father had then, disgusted, said,
that they should be put behind bars.
He stared off into the distant past,
staring at but not seeing the ceiling
Then drifted into determined dreams at last,
strong stirring emotions, feeling.
While the son gazed at a long-taken photo,
at the grinning father and son
Hand in hand and holding their motto –
“Our undying love makes us one”.
And he stared off into the inky black
at the far wall of his room
His heart seemed to jolt, and then to crack
as drops on his cheeks began to bloom.
He was once again gazing at the stubborn seed
when he was called for dinner, to eat
Copyright © Rosy Love
Long poem by
Tbi Technologies | Details |
WEBSITE DESIGNING IN BHOPAL http://www.tbitechnologies.com
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