"bombardier" poems
A future New York City Subway car ordered for the B Division.
It will replace the aging fleet of R-32s and R-42s and expand the fleet for the Second Avenue Subway.
The contract to build these cars has been awarded to Bombardier Transportation who will build the cars at it's Plattsburgh, New York facility.
The base order for the R-179 will be approximately 290 cars with an option of 300 cars.
And it's expected to enter service between 2016 and 2022.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
(WE ARE!)
The space pioneers, planetary colliders seizing the heavens and placing them on earth, pop pop big bang brain busters that spin galaxies into milky ways and planets into candybars, the alien humanoid reflectors reflecting the sun back into Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
(WE ARE!)
The fire-starters, self-combustion, canvas arsonists. IGNITE! Light the streets on fire with your blood. Explode, implode, and explode again. Pilot to bombardier, we’re dropping bombs like Guernica.
(WE ARE!)
Wild creatures born out of black magic, black mamba, bear your ******* fangs! Be a predator! Find you’re prey, rip it’s ******* guts out, and paint something with them. Then scream, scream so loud that Munch himself would tell you to turn it down a notch.
(WE ARE!)
The creators, the ground shakers, the earth quakers, inventing ideas, gushing thought, and gushing blood because remember, you are alive! Alive with creativity, passion, and energy to create, because we are artists.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
This is a story from the Army Apprentices School, Arborfield, which was not far from Wokingham in Berkshire. I started my soldiering there on 15 January, 1959. It was a memorable first day because on the way there, through a window of the London to Wokingham train I saw a real, live cow and that evening, in the cookhouse, I had a pint *** smashed over my head. Anyway, this poem relates to the passage of information and the dangers of misinformation, and in a way is relative to my first day.
(While waiting for a train)
A bombardier and corporal were arguing the toss
About a job they had to do, about who should be boss.
The corporal said 'it should be me. You know the way we train.
My being in the Infantry means that I have the brain
To make sure job gets properly done, and doing it is really fun.
That being said - this job, you know, we really ought to flick it.
Would you believe they have us down to run a fire-piquet?
Replied his mate, the bombardier, 'even if it's cavalier,
I'm the one that fires off gun so I should get to have the fun.
And working the Apprentice School appears to me to be quite cool.
These AT's., they know their stuff, and work they'd never think to cuff.
Why, one even told my daughter, ‘on fire you never use hot water.'
Perplexed, his mate then asked 'why not, use h2o when it is hot?'
'Stands to reason' said his mate (they stood at Railway Station),
'Hot water on a burning fire just ups the conflagration'.
The two both spent that weekend off at home and in the yard.
Concluding individually the task was just too hard.
And so, selectively, they chose (so soon as they got back)
To do the work at Arborfield a smartly dressed lance-jack.
A Fusileer with bright cockade, four GEC's and bright
(though he said he'd had to give up two for getting in a fight).
He drilled the boys of Arborfield exactly as he orter
Whilst urging them to 'never, ever, ever use hot water'.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
here is something they do not teach
in school, that is why
Juaniyo put a bandana around his head
in red and like a sturdy kalasag, he raised
his hand high, championing all —
nobody shall strike this country with
impunity.
Juaniyo was an anarchist — a decibel in the voice of this nation, standing strong
for the deprived, the voiceless,
the pithless. this was inscrutable force
awakened — they did not teach this
in school. they taught us that we'd
be winners, hotshots,
millionaires, tycoons, dogs and slaves to
capitalists — this total equation
they didn't tell us together with the
suicides and the extra-judicial killings,
the limp democracy of the state,
summary executions, the displaced
groups, shelterless mothers with children
suckling their ******* while seeking
alms, the downfall of all economies
for Juaniyo, a hurled rock is the imperative as a thick wall of alloy
and fiber glass drive him to the edge
of the street where somewhere in the periphery, a bombardier of water is waiting with a steady aim;
they did not want their powers
challenged, they did not find it appealing that their oppressive authoritarian stance
is put to the test and is at the verge
of being dismantled to be replaced by
freer, egalitarian structures.
Juaniyo leaves the class in total pursuit,
heeds the call of heartland.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
Seventy Three Years Since 1945
(August 6 and 9 respectively)
Robert Oppenheimer manned
"The Manhattan Project",
a top secret World War II mission
which constituted "Little Boy" codename
for a uranium gun-type atomic
bomb dropped at 0815
exploding 580 metres above civilians
with15 kiloton blast yield reduced
400 year old city to dust
Colonel Paul Tibbets, the pilot/ bombardier
of the Enola Gay (the Boeing B-29 Superfortress
unleashing nuclear warfare
seventy three years ago today)
gives cause for this baby boomer to revisit
mentally, the annihilation,
extermination, incineration
the first of two storied Japanese enclaves
realizes how trifling my current bout
with mania paranoia, pneumonia
(from northern exposure)
contrasted with sinister malevolent
evil tower ushering
thermonuclear age epitomizing
coup de nada so graceful means
maximum military mutilation
though unwell, this inflammation poised
to be cured unlike subsequent
generations of victims
who survived atrocious, egregious, hellacious,
judicious slaughter can only
poorly be described
by this mortal with a curable
bacterial/viral infection
aghast at such wanton killing, moreso
via weapons of mass destruction
more devastatingly grisly than
those "experimental" bombs
loosed upon the innocent population,
whereby 75,000 people killed or fatally injured
with 65% of casualties nine years
of age and younger
whence offspring of survivors
evincing excess genetic anomalies
with fiery windy surface
temperatures topping 4,000C
upon terrain hallowed by ghastly
horrible deathly dominance
amidst shadow of a mushroom cloud.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 7:15 PM UTC
Aisle putt ta ma head but tween these skinny legs
and kiss thine braying *** good-bye
asper ma person, thine gluteus maximus
a boot the size of a hand held palm pilot cell phone,
hence nada worth ache cry
though ah share a preference not hood die
yet if push (shin the atomic bombardier button)
combs **** hove Eli
zha would be nowhere in sight,
thence salvation might be sought from a common
(sad dulled) horse fly
to bring deliverance (due ling ban joe plucked solo) to this guy
who reckons, there will no time to converse
‘cept as mentioned earlier me high
knee will be the sole recipient I
will spout hot air
and confuse the burst of flatulence from ma bare
swaying per suede bell bottom as an echo – loud and clear
that used to be mode of en dear
mint ‘tween muss elf and spouse – wherever she may be ‘ere
a presumption, she met her demise amidst radiation with fear
and loathing uncertain who to vent her angry glare
understandable to pay price for the folly of heir
don trump – perchance he too got vaporized as faux icier
flakes flittering among the global debacle – where jeer
grim reaper will be feted as like
at a fancyfeast with choicest bit
of human remains of the doomsday,
and immune to perilous nuclear fit
loosed upon the terra firmae,
where most every metropolitan center ground zero
but with heavy-duty weapons of mass destruction,
one need not make a direct hit
cuz the deadly fallout will make the entire globe
tuff Hester and become liquefied bubbling
as one large snake pit
thus no more poetry competitions –
**** –
yet writing aye will not quit
but scratch out whatever thoughts seem worthwhile
*** ping will discover bunched inside a iron made in USA trivet
and held tightly sealed via many makeshift rivet.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 11:52 PM UTC
She starts up her motors,
She revs me 'til I purr.
She spins up her rotors,
I'm always dizzy for her.
She checks all the gauges twice,
I'm ready and eager for flight,
Heat, pressure - optimal, nice.
Her flight plan is for speed and height.
She glances back with a stewardess smile,
I'm shrugging into my bombardier coat.
She examines my seatbelt, no trace of guile,
So sweet, we wouldn't want it to chafe my throat.
Perfect piloting, no clouds in sight - no turbulence at all,
She's got the only parachute, but I know we won't fall.
Cruisin' along smoothly, we hit the target altitude,
Over the headset, "If you love me, hit the big red button, dude!"
Sudden change in direction, same speed but straight down,
What once was blue sky is now onrushing ground.
Her skills are legend, she could drop me on a dime,
She knows right where I'll land, and I climb aboard every time.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 1:31 AM UTC