aboard the aircraft metaphorical
bearing those employed
by companies large and small

a moment arrives when the cryptic
overhead lights instruct
that the time to leave has come

passengers are led to the open door
at the rear of the fuselage
where they will leap into the mist

the happy few will be strapped
into a designer backpack
filled with a carefully packaged parachute
of luminous gold

others are handed
a sturdy bundle which holds a
lifesaving paraglider of shining silver

a group somewhat more numerous
gratefully accept their sustaining dome
of spun silk and exit with confidence

the greatest number will be in a line
leading past a toilet paper dispenser
each individual to be ejected will be allotted
a single sheet

the one ply tissue will be printed as follows
“Grasp tissue firmly on opposite sides
hold tissue above head parallel with ground”

a hearty cry of “Good luck!” follows them
as they are assisted through the door
by a well placed boot

How do I get her attention?
If a nervous greeting is a paper airplane
And a stranger's smile the nervous breeze
Then maybe I'll start with aerodynamics
But she isn't a pilot, she's maybe a mechanic
She might notice that my airplane has faulty wings
And the breeze carried little weight or feel
But I know that my engine's well-maintained
And the screws and bolts in my head are fine
If my hopes dance around thin ropes
And flying is but a hopeless romantic's dream
Then I wish that the wind bring us together
And we'll maintain what will let us fly in love

A Jet
In a clear blue sky
Leaving a faint vapour trail
Pure white across azure

Perfect summer day
People shopping, driving
Leaving the house with claims
Of “Be back soon”
Not knowing they’d never be fulfilled

A crowd, in anticipation
Packed like sardines
Around an arena, waiting to be awed
Wowed by the spectacle of flight
One man among the clouds
Mocking their gravitational prison

But today, worlds collide
Are destroyed
Man finds that fragile flight
Ends on a road at traffic lights
Not the spectacle expected
But no less dramatic, a ball of flame

The crowd take pictures for the press
Hoping for a mention on the news
And update facebook status
Under a sky of clear blue

Build me an airport above the surface of your heart
The runway could be hard surfaces
Made out of asphalt
Or soft surfaces
Made of grass
No matter how easy or hard
I will take my chances
To land safely on your heart

Make a radio tower and tell me the radio frequency
So I can tell you how gorgeous is your smile
How I love your sins, flaws and your style
And you can tell me
Clear to do arrival and approach
But if you are not ready, put me on hold

Dark clouds in the sunset glow
there's an invisible death below

Amidst apartment blocks, I stroll
around and around a new black hole
of concentrated matter

A broken-winged cargo plane smashed
friends of friends of friends of mine

It is quiet after the blow
I want to hear what I don't want to know
and then kiss away the danger
be it with a stranger

Caress me, caress me, make me glory
for a night, let me forget this story

Future Craft
Once the Gryphons flew in a mighty air fleet.
Now there are only twelve left.
Each with a poetical name like Kesef.
Let us fly aboard such a craft.
A 9th generation biotic craft.
Sentient and aware looking like a big dragonfly.
They subdued entire continents
Armed with unbelievable weapons.
Flown by reborn pilots.
Each totally committed to his task.
Connected to his machine.
Pilot and war plane as one.
Unbeatable in battle.
God and Goddess like in power.
With their names and legacy.
Utterly beautiful in flight.
One family of advanced flying machines.
All created by a young pretty woman.
Her mind was a gift…

gimme a flaming pumpkin seed
for i wanna do some trouble
create havoc down below me
hypseronic devil craft
created by man to ****
thermonuclear detonations
wherever i wish
got 122 nuclear warheads
snug in my belly
each one a city killer
or able to destroy an army
kicked out by springs
easy as having a beer
nobody or nothing
can touch me
unlike me upon high
easily the most evil weapon
riding my own shckwave
skipping the atmsophere
into space where i reign
the winner of all wars
before they begin
but winning without mercy
if they start
soviet russia my target
and any one else
who wants to dance
my flaming pumpkin seed
power beyond god
created by america
to rule you all

the heart an aircraft
capable of flying
but not of floating

There are four giant kerosene kettles
Tied to the wings
Of the machine
In which I sit.
Voices speak in the air
Confident and bland.
The owner of one of the voices
Sets fire to the kettles
And the whole machine leaps
Into the air
Me with it.
We all pretend it’s OK
And sit quietly
Until the voices speak again
And tell us
The fire is out
And we can leave
Into a strange city
Or home.