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Is this actually possible? Considering so few pf the planes were built... i dunno...

Manchester Bomber Wreck

Manchester bomber rotting away

Different than it was before

Holes in the surface skin

Many pieces missing

Broken in two

Separated by many feet

Engines fallen free

Skeletons of the crew inside

Unknown war grave except to them

Who haunt their lost bomber

Lying under the sea bed

To them they’re still flying

In the sky above enemy territory

Fighting for their lives

With a faulty engine

Not actually on fire

Then the flak hit them

Damaging the tail unit

Followed by an enemy fighter

Who shoots them full of holes

And kills the Flight Engineer

Hitting him with a 20mm cannon shell

But not before the gunners

Down the **** night fighter

The crippled bomber flies on

Slowly losing height

They’ll never reach the target

Nor return home to England

So drop their bombs on a small town

Unknowingly killing dozens

Four tons of bombs will do that

The Manchester bomber wasn’t fired on again

Losing height was the enemy

They decided what to do and drew lots

Bail out or ditch in the sea?

They decided to ditch

It was almost dawn

And the horizon lit up

They should of made it

But the faulty engine finally died

The bomber stalled and dug a wing in

It cartwheeled over the sea

Broke in two and sank

All aboard were knocked out

And taken to a watery grave

Unknown to the world except themselves

The only remaining Manchester bomber
Is this actually possible? Considering so few pf the planes were built... i dunno...
Woodweaver Nov 2018
Manchester is drunk, and can't make it to the phone right now...
When traveling, the bravest people sometimes ask what Manchester is like.
Logan Robertson May 2017
A Rogue Mind Attacks Manchester

A rogue mind descends on a village square
ravishing it's children without a prayer.
Birds of peace gather and fight the fire
on it's wings rest hopes, civility inspires.

Up in the sky clouds weep at the mass loss
of young ones taken early in bearing the cross.
From this World, the descendants left in pain,
relatives and love ones befallen, crying in vain.

It hurts me to see the breadbasket of life
filled with ISIS and terrorist inciting strife.
For the seeds they plant grab at our hearts,
such devilish intertwines taking our lives apart.

How I wish a drone peaks into their yellow skies,
taking them all out, like an eye for an eye.
Maybe so that's the solution for their pillage,
so, now, the World be tighter than the Olympic villages.

Logan Robertson

Don’t look down
where emaciated bodies lie beyond salvation
they’re beneath you
when you preach for profit.

Don’t look down
to idle bones on the edge of prison walls
they’ve already fallen
their hands too bloodied to shake
their eyes too blind to see the mistakes they are yet to make.
Save the souls with the pound sign goals
avert your eyes from the misery of the fallen
they’re not even there
if you don’t look down.
So, I was walking through the centre of Manchester as preachers had grins fixed on their faces, handing out flyers to the well-dressed passers-by, ignoring the homeless people that were surrounding them. Doesn't make sense does it?
Bethan Roberts Aug 2018
A young man lunges
Out of the analogue darkness
Before his limbs fade back into static
Leaving only a microphone -
Then nothing.
This poem was written in response to grainy footage of Ian Curtis performing taken from Factory Records' archives and displayed in Manchester Art Gallery
Chris Neilson Aug 2018
Along the bus filled corridor
from the south of the city
through the Victorian architecture
of Withington and Fallowfield
to the world food of Rusholme
with its plethora of barber shops
shoe shops, shisha bars, cafes
Philips Park and the eye hospital
then the university quarter
students like woolly hatted ants
a human tide of books and backpacks
our future professional generation
of doctors, scientists and philosophers
part time poets and musicians

Into the city centre bustle 
of hipsters and hustlers
high flyers and homeless
rough sleepers and penthouses
side by side in a sea of incongruity
The roman settlement of Castlefield
now sky scraping soulless concrete
in this original city of industry
where workers downed tools 
in cotton mills for anti-slavery 
American Civil War brethren
built on old world immigration
integrated into a working class
of blue collars, graft and toil
bones of its makers in its soil

Images of the lost industries
now decorate ornate beautiful bees
scattered in and around the urban sprawl
timely reminders of our heritage
of Northern grit in all its colours
of invention, science, sport, music and art
of protest, achievement and inspiration
a city that's historical
a city for the here and now
a city for future nascent talent
a city that's changed the world
Manchester, a city for all ages
I wrote most of this after returning from a hospital appointment earlier this year but have now added to it to bring it up to date
Chris Neilson May 2018
These days in May; oh glorious days
of sunshine unbroken rarely spoken
of in northern climes in modern times
summer 1976 is all we ever here of
if you’re lucky enough to remember
my distant memories of that wave of heat
included swarms of ladybirds never seen
in the living memory of that time
packed beaches and hosepipe bans to the fore
sweating in school; cooled only by milk
before milk snatcher Maggie Thatcher
stole that lifeline from our feeble grasp
bearded Bjorn Borg winning Wimbledon
on a sizzling Saturday in July
while I poked a stick in melting tar
all I needed to satisfy my childhood
simpler times, nostalgia dictates happier times
when you’re 9, every day lasts a week
in middle age every week lasts a day
or that’s the way it feels
I wish for these glorious days in May
to slow down; slow to a snails pace
to become a saving grace
for all who believe and trust in peace
for all to get what they deserve
on a May evening in Manchester in 2017
countless numbers were failed by this
so let’s wish for future generations
to grasp the peaceful baton
to reach a natural finishing line
after running a relay of love
It will be a year tomorrow that evil visited Manchester
nick armbrister Feb 2018
This life, this people, this city.
All living in a certain geographical area – here, this city.
Dying eventually, one day which only God knows.
Today under a tram or of old age.
This city with many names, is it like your city?
I know you were a cold war target, so were we.
People make love, fight, laugh, cry
in your city just like in my city.
You have been bombed, so have we.
Quick, dig them out! Shall we join them
and **** them, their corpses can't say no!
Go to see a Goth band, add our own
little histories to a history of this city?
Chris Neilson Jan 2018
Standing not permitted
on the upper deck
do as you're told
or risk a broken neck

Do not distract the driver
they have enough to do
jingle the bell in time
give them a clue

Some can be grumpy
but can't we all
dealing with the public
is no Cinderella's ball

Buses get stuck in traffic
roadworks and inevitable delay
you must not blame the driver
when you're having a bad day

We used to like conductors
with their clunky ticket machines
now it's all apps and mishaps
and the latest iPhone screens

Drivers do it all now
except set the fares
they have bills as well to pay
don't run down those stairs!
A dedication to my friend who is one of the just 6% of female bus drivers in Manchester
Chris Neilson Nov 2017
On Market Street on a wild and wintry day
I saw their shapes in the gathering gloom
By the Christmas markets down Manchester way
And my thoughts of the elephant in the room

Concrete protects Albert Square in a decadent December
Queues for Yorkshire Pudding Wraps sold by Europeans in caps
The fine smell of pine fetching my childhood to remember
Where ghosts of Christmas past occupy gaping gaps

The currency of time I gave the shapes in the city
And recognition of their unseen existence in the bustle
That surrounds their incongruity with little or no pity
From worldwide voracious visitors flexing financial muscle

On a midnight Piccadilly back street where the shadowy shapes meet
Away from the shuttered stalls and boisterous behaviour
Under starry skies with tear filled eyes and frozen feet
No guiding shining star or wise men to bring them a saviour
Based on Patrick Kavanagh's On Raglan Road but with very different subject matter i.e. the shapes are the unprecedented multitudes of rough sleepers and homeless in Manchester city centre while the Christmas markets sell their overpriced goods to many who pay the price but can't afford it.
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