Conversations overlapping.
Suitcase wheels rolling.
Babies sobbing.
Mothers calling.
Headphones blaring.
People scurrying.
PA system whispering.
Starbucks bustling.
Airplanes taking off and landing.
And in the middle of everything,
The lady in black.
Sitting motionless, hands grasping her
Black umbrella, her sleek black dress
Accentuating her young body,
And whilst a black veil covers her face,
Her tears shine through, reflecting
From the bright lights of the airport.
When you look closer,
Her slim body trembles with concealed sobs,
And her calm facade is broken
With closer inspection,
Broken inside from something undetectable from the outside.
The lady in black.
We have all been her.

rations

one expedition found a key

from one of our iron rations

this was real evidence

it showed we were there

why would a fly boy eat our chow?

they ate in hotels served by waiters

those were army iron rations

eaten by us in the trenches

but food aside

we had one thing in common

we all hated the ****

Tarac
We busted our *****
To get up there
Over a kilometre high
Where the warplanes live
And die a violent death
Meeting their end up above
On towering lonely slopes
As did Lt Stone and Sgt Kurosawa
On the same day seventy six years ago
To the day we went there
As others before had
For we had a job to do
The missing answer to find
To locate the remains of a lost pilot
Named Stone from America
Who flew a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk
In mortal battle with his nemesis
Kurosawa from Japan
With his Nakajima Ki-27 Nate
Both died that day
February 9 1942
And both haunt those inclines
One is angry and lost
One found wants to go home
One likes Hello Kitty
But not the one you think
For my drink tumbler fell
And the guide missed it
It stopped where Stone said
And there we dug dug dug
And found his airplane
Or what was once his warplane
In pieces that were scrap
But had meaning to our group
For it was this plane
That brought us here
Many hours of climbing
Swearing and sweating
To touch the clouds
And be where both hit
At what cost?
Two planes smashed
Two pilots dead
The American protecting Villamoor
The Philippines' best pilot
Who flew his biplane
A Boeing Stearman
On a recon mission
The same type that flies today
With **** English wing walkers
From Clark in Bataan
The same field Kurosawa flew from
Yes synchronicity is here
Eagle Has Landed style
What does this mean now?
In 2018 right now
Is it the pilots' ghosts
Or God or fate or karma
That brought me here
To Tarac Ridge to look
To try to find Stone's bones?
When so many have looked
And failed to find him
Did we really find Lt Stone?
So he's no longer MIA
And captive here
This beautiful mountain side
Where the sky and sea become one
Where Bataan and Corregidor
Are visible
The old battlefields
Where hell occured
Where there are more MIAs
From both sides
Both pilots hunted here
And both became the prey
Paying the ultimate cost
Bent metal and broken bones
Telling a story
Their story
If you listen
You will hear it...

“Sir. They Hit the Wrong Town”
Ruth was concerned. Spitfire recon photos were the problem. Not the quality but something else. The target, it was wrong. Its street plan was different. Buildings, or what were once buildings, were different. What was wrong? Ruth thought. Do what thy will be the whole of the law. Do it right or it’s a **** up! What have our boys done?

She called her superior officer over. Quietly Ruth raised her concern and he looked closely through the stereoscopic eye glass at the post bombing pic.

“Strewth! You’re right. A right **** up. They hit the wrong ****** town. It’s not Munich. This is bad.

Ruth glanced up with wide intelligent questioning eyes. She looked very pretty in her WAAF uniform, with hair tied back and young features.

“As you sow, so shall you reap,” muttered her officer. Did it matter where the enemy was hit? As long as we bombed them. Our revenge for Coventry, London and a score more. Our Lancasters were pulverizing Germany. Bomber Harris had unleashed his whirlwind, silencing the Luftwaffe’s wind with extreme violence.

An urgent investigation needed to be carried out. It was the wrong target. A new raid would be needed...

clip god's eagles
they praise god at every single turn
and worship him like an addict high
blessing everyone and themselves
even their aeroplanes are blessed
with god's name on the nose
this applies to both civil and military
the warplanes especially are blessed
with pilots who are adept at killing
what does god think about this?
or should we ask the devil?
ten thousand killed in the yemen war
blown to bits by saudi bombs
dropped by planes with god bless
painted on their nose
tell me is this a wise thing?
what is holy about these heinous act?
i'm sure god has something to say
when he speaks who will listen?
the heathen muslim saudis
who use fakely blessed jets
to **** terrorists and civilians
and further an unnamed cause
in the name of who, god?

Ice Fly
How many pilots died and old aircraft lost when they flew over jagged snowy peaks in the remotest corners of the world? Doing a dangerous job knowing the risks and trusting in fate and luck to bring the through. Some never made it, there planes impacting vertical mountain sides in sickening crashes. Bodies lost forever, frozen in the time of death. Icily cold and otherworldly remote.

From the Andes to Himalayas, Alps to the Rockies. If you ***** up or your engine stops, you’re going to crash and suffer. Survive and you’re *******, twenty thousand feet above sea level with no chance of rescue, just a slow cold death.

Of the ones who live and beat death in the mountains, they have stories to hold their grand kids in awe. Did you really fly a C-46 over the ****, risking *** fighters and Mother Nature? Sure did son, it was a walk in the park. Of the ones who didn’t make it, they remain forever on coldly beautiful mountains holding up the roof of the world.

Maybe their ghost will remain there forever, in rapture of the beauty of icy mountains, forgetting how they died.

I love looking at highways from aeroplanes,
They snake across the blotchy, flat earth
And slither into the endless blue haze,

I wonder what they find there,
Is it love or death?
Or old friends?
Or happiness?

Perhaps, their happiness
Is in the curly-q designs
They scrawl like ancient script

I trace it,
Running my fingers over three-pane glass,
Until they disappear

And the clouds look like fingers and hands,
Reaching out to touch me,
Expanding with every breath I take,
Calling me down to the river,
Calling me down to the trees

But my happiness is in the single, breathless moment of take-off,
The moment I feel my heart lurch,
And bang into the something inside me pushing me forward,
Into the illusory blue

DONALD TRUMP BELIEVES IN INVISIBLE PLANES
WONDER WOMAN PLEASE STAND BY
DONALD TRUMP IS GOING TO STEAL YOUR PLANE
SO HE CAN FLY IT IN THE SKY



I SEE THEM HERE
I SEE THEM THERE
THOSE INVISIBLE PLANES
I SEE THEM EVERY WHERE