Jimmy Boom Semtex older poems

 

My Teen Years

If you knew of what I went through in my teens, what would you say?

Being bullied at school and having to learn how to fight.

Not being able to get a girlfriend, so insecure and more.

The male lovers, how wrong it was to experiment.

Getting a big fat girl pregnant, my first time.

Having deep depression and suicidal thoughts.

I should have been a pilot but wasn't; low grades, bad eyesight and a discipline problem.

Being bullied some more while working in garages.

Doing the wrong job was wrong wrong wrong, I was lost lost lost!

Racing cars on the street, many crashes and damage.

Cost me my hell job and almost my life in one crash.

My dad's past added to my strife, revealed by a friend.

Looking back, what do I make of all this now?

It still bothers me but I can tell the world I survived.

 

 

 

Memorial

There are a few facts I know.

You weren't happy at that moment.

I controlled you, puppet on a string.

You never had my friendship.

Except on bank jobs.

You never had three decades of her in your life.

I get this info from your letter to me.

Why not email like other people?

Did you want to be different?

Leaving a physical written reminder of your discord.

It doesn't matter now, not to me.

I informed the thought police.

You're a wanted man.

Not by me; by them.

Especially if you write me again.

Pain will be your friend.

Not mental anguish but broken bones.

Do me a big favour cus and do one.

Your letter reminds me of you and a certain girl.

If she knew of your feelings and actions, would she cry?

No, because I'd shoot her.

Then marry her sister and have a family.

I'd name our kids after you both.

Maybe I'll do that anyhow.

Call it a memorial to you and your ruined legacy.

Goodbye fading memory, gangster no more.

I'm victorious and have got all the loot.

 

 

 

Only One (for the unnamed babies aborted in Red China)

The Red Chinese authorities strictly enforced their one child policy.

One young lady felt her baby kick regularly.

This child will be a strong one.

Not to be!

At eight months old her baby was terminated.

A bad abortion but successful.

Rule enforced, only one child allowed, not two.

You must follow the law!

Poor lady was shown her dead baby.

Sent her into shock and mental illness.

Now years later her mind is damaged.

She cries, My poor baby, they murdered him.

He was a human life, he kicked inside me.

Oh the karma!

It will repay you all for your rules and actions.

You took my baby's life before he ever lived.

Ironically, today a couple is allowed two children.

They changed the law.

 

 

 

Forgive Me Not

Forgive me not for this poem but how I feel.

The spark between us has gone.

Where I'm not sure?

I think we will soon part.

I'd let you go yesterday if I didn't love you.

I'm fed up of your moods and conflict between us.

I'm creative but you're not.

You say all artists should live on Mars.

I want to go when I fall out of love with you.

You say I'm a bad husband cos I don't work.

I start my new job in January.

It will help money wise but I know we won't change.

How can we?

It's who we are, conflicting stars aflame.

I want to be happy.

You don't want to be sad.

I try to prepare for the day when we die.

If only love could be turned off.

But that isn't possible, is it?

So I endure what we are, what is us.

And see what happens next.

I'm not looking forward to Xmas and want this nasty year to end.

I want it all to be better.

Did I make bad choices before?

Was fate toying with our lives?

Yes it was.

Just like now.

I blame love.

 

 

 

Off To Mars

All creative people are to live on Mars.

Imagine how cool it would be.

The aero/space program would be fucking awesome.

 

Designing spaceships to get there,

rockets like the nuclear powered engine,

space planes for going to the surface,

habitats to live in,

terraforming to make a breathable atmosphere and more.

 

When it's all sorted, then we write, sing, paint, sculpt.

Totally fucking awesome.

I'd also fly on Mars.

Gliders in the low grav sky...

 

 

 

Madness

I love you more than all the others.

For that reason you are special.

And I am mad.

For loving you this way.

 

 

 

Don't Want To

Don't want to love cos I'm stressed.

Don't want to write cos I'm stressed.

Don't want to travel cos I'm stressed.

Don't want to fight cos I'm stressed.

Don't want to drink cos I'm stressed.

Don't want to hide cos I'm stressed.

Don't want to sleep cos I'm stressed.

Don't want to party cos I'm stressed.

Don't want to work cos I'm stressed.

Don't want to dance cos I'm stressed.

What I do want is for this stress to fuck off!

 

 

 

Purrrfect Pussy

People think that guys want all the pussy they can handle.

When I'm asked if I want new pussy, the answer is NO!

I struggle to satisfy the one I've got.

In bed, financially, mentally etc.

One is enough, so no more thank you very much.

If new pussy had an on and off switch I'd dabble.

Turn it on when I want fun, off when I've done.

Maybe I should invent such a piece of pussy?

Then a guy can have a thousand and not get stressed.

Don't want earache?

Simply turn it off.

I'll start designing it now.

And get rich beyond all comparison.

Then empty my balls hassle free.

 

 

 

Sister Act

With a sister like mine

I don't need enemies

like you who hates me.

I'll give you my sister

as an Xmas gift.

On permanent loan.

See how you feel

with her moods and

anger turning you blue.

 

 

 

Wedded Bliss

At that point again with no nice deeds and bad bloody words.

They never seem to learn, here they are again at stress central.

Get the red flag out again, it's argument time for the unhappy couple.

Neighbours bang on the walls and turn their TVs up.

Even people outside can hear it, it's a right embarrassment!

 

When gunshots erupt, the row continues!

That can't be right?

Dead people don't argue.

Because they're fucking dead.

But this dead couple does.

 

Their fight goes on and on, remarkable when you consider the facts:

she blew his fucking head off and he cut her throat!

There's blood and brains everywhere but it still rages.

A dead couple arguing, love beyond the grave with no end in sight.

It will take a nuclear bomb to stop these crazy dead nutters.

 

 

 

Tondelayo

And so there...

 

There high above us was the High Squadron.

Their contrails were visible for miles.

Enemy Nazi fighters could, would, hide there.

We in the Middle Squadron watched them, they stalked us, out of 50 Cal range.

 

They waited...

 

We flew on in our B-17, named Tondelayo.

Little did we know that we would be attacked, soon.

 

And again on other flights.

 

20MM cannon shells would be found, unexploded, in our wing fuel tanks.

Inside one shell was not high explosive but a note; it said:

 

This is all we can do for now...

 

Later, they hit us.

Tondelayo ended up under the sea.

 

We barely survived.

 

We flew for the Mighty Eighth.

Don't ask our names...

Just remember what we did.

 

For Elmer Bendiner, his crewmates and their plane Tondelayo, a Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress. Elmer wrote a stunning book. I read it in the 80s...

 

 

KAHLIA AKASHA ISFAHAN NUCLEAR STRIKE

 

KAHLIA AKASHA ISFAHAN NUCLEAR STRIKE 

(Please play "I don’t feel like dancing" by the Scissor Sisters.)

We painted my lovely warplane white for our deadly strike on our enemy, Iran. After Iran kidnapped 12 British military personnel and damaged a destroyer, the nod was given. Act on the No1 enemy's No 1 target – Isfahan, a city of a million, numerous military targets, an airbase and the infamous nuclear facility – a real bomb factory. We painted her white after much preparation, with special radar-absorbent stealth paint. Faint red soviet stars in the usual places, wings, tail, fuselage. Red bort number 666, we acted for the devil. We sweated, we fucked, we got drunk, we ate and slept by the plane. We got the single thermonuclear bomb from an abandoned bunker in East Germany – an electronics package to let bomb and jet talk, removal of the twin barrel 30mm under fuselage cannon to house the bomb semi-recessed, new computer software to allow blind bombing at night/bad weather linked to the autopilot, four practice missions, additional weapons and a re-paint was all it took. Now the mission was for real.

We took off on mission from our secret base on the edge of Oldham. We bought the single runway at a discount rate, along with our prop jet fighter. I met my partner online, on an old pen-pal site, now long hacked. She loved planes and war like I did. The rest is history. Here we were on the runway; she did the cockpit checks, armed the bomb, checked our other weapons, fuel status and other systems. Climb out was gentle to save fuel, throttle set to cruise, altitude increased in steps to 50,000ft. No rush at a steep angle, just slight nose up to our angelic height. We would be shielded from any radar by our stealth paint, low radar profile, height and route round all radars – both enemy and friendly.

I looked out at the ground below, towns all lit up in the clear night air. A view for miles, leaving the northwest of England, towns of Oldham, Ashton, Rochdale and Manchester. Out over the North Sea, over mainland Europe. By autopilot, but I couldn’t sleep. From my rear cockpit, I watched my gal, my love. She checked systems, radar, infra-red, weapons, avionics. Radar blips of airliners ten thousand feet below us showed on my radar repeater. Looking out and down, I could see two jet planes on separate headings, vapour trailing, nav lights blinking. A pretty site. No trouble from NATO radar or anyone else. We weren't there, invisible. An interception by a fast jet would be a challenge to evade. If, say, a Hungarian Gripen scrambled after they picked us up, could we escape? If he went at supersonic low level, he could zoom climb to get us, for he was twice as fast. Had Amraam missiles with forty mile kill range and could shoot four at once! We could jam his radar, his missile radars, drop chaff decoys, use our greater agility and our stealth. It would only take one missile to hit us. If we evaded three, one was still all it would take. We would fire back with our bright star short range dog fight missiles, our axe head medium range weapons, or dive to ground level, make him hit the ground. Or run him out of fuel. It never happened over Hungary or anywhere else, our technology was our cloak. We would fight if we had to, over Iran almost definitely. To do our evil work, anything goes. We both knew this.

The Iranian coast came up. My gal passed radar control to me, air to air to sweep ahead for any enemy fighters on combat air patrol, training missions or scrambling up after us. We were ready. I had two short and two medium range missiles to kill any brave Iranian stupid to stop us. We had four drop tanks inboard of our missiles. These would be jettisoned when empty. Red light flashed – last two tanks empty. I dropped them over the coast, our first gift to Iran. Soon we would unleash the sun. Our speed increased, less drag. My lover calmly alerted me to two search radars ahead, below us. One to each side. We ghosted past, stealth cloaking us like a rapist hunting his prey. No lock on as we passed; any blip they got from us would be seen as an anomaly.

I gently pushed the single throttle forwards to reach our attack speed – 610mph. Our top speed with half weapon load. I climbed slowly to use our speed for height. We slowed in the thin upper air, hardly enough to give lift. Engine power pushed us forth, up to 53,524ft. It was the maximum height that we could fly level. Nothing could touch us. More radars searching below us, a great web of electronic eyes many miles apart. Short, medium, long range. All to detect the enemy, be it Israel, America, Britain or another, us, doing covert work for the Brits. In a Soviet warbird.

There! A group of blips on the screen!

No missile trails or launch warnings, just the problem radars. We had no anti-radar weapons; we needed more air-to-air than anti-radar missiles. The threat was more deadly. We started to leave the radar group behind. Our jamming denied them more than the shortest lock. It was enough, though. Our own radar picked up rising airborne targets – Iranian fighters. I locked up the four most dangerous closest jets. All I had to do was click my trigger on the stick or lock my helmet site to fire if time was short. Distance and time to target unwound in my head’s up display. Jammers switched to air-to-air.

Missile range coming up, now! I confirmed with my gal, then launched one medium range weapon. It glared like a demon, spearing down into the dusk sky. On my scope our axe head missile merged with plane. A distant flash – nothing. Five other Iranian jets turned away, shocked by my first blood. They'd be back.

We changed course. Isfahan was ten minutes away. My gal armed our single one-megaton nuclear bomb. All in the green. Here we go, countdown on my screen. Bomb drop will be automatic but my lover and I will ghost it, both press the red button just to make sure. Our most intimate act. Fuck! Enemy jets coming back, three to port, four to starboard. Classic sandwich tactic. My weapons outrange them but we only have one BVR missile. I’ll hit the group to our left! Here we go – missile away! Range closing, they’re going supersonic. Close the gap. Ready, our two bright star weapons, the Soviets’ best close range weapon. I drop chaff and flares, set jammers to auto. Talk to my gal. Okay? Yes. Glad to be here? Yes, wouldn't be anywhere else.

Here we go, their mid-range weapons speed to us. Most fired blind, their dated air-to-air radars just can’t see us. Our tech is better than theirs. Bang! My axe head blows an Iranian Sukhoi to kingdom come. Four missiles from the left jets, five to the right. Only one of the latter guide, with a faint lock on. Chaff decoys it, jamming takes care of their radar. I turn sharply to port – my entrance to Isfahan is there. Locking up my two heat seekers by infra-red, I have two more kills. Steady, wait for five mile range – one away, two away. Straight and level through any remaining fighters. No need to turn, to pursue them. We outfought them in level flight by our technology. In a dogfight we had the best plane ever built. I see my two missiles hit home – only one left.

We shoot past the last jet, drop decoys to stop any missiles fired by the others. For some reason there was none. We were one our own. A walk in the park. Two minutes to go. Nothing would stop us. We are ready, last checks, our last weapon ready. We had four kills, a million more would follow. See it now, industrial haze, faint street plan, big buildings, grey against the brown desert, straight line of the nearby Mig airfield and the main target - Isfahan nuclear facility. Queen of the Iranian bomb program, where they built the weapon used on the Jews. Israel held back, for World War III would follow their revenge. We acted for them all.

Shit! Surface to air missile launched, one after the other. Launched blind or by infra-red, can see the dust kicked up and light of the rocket engines. Now multiple search radars lighting up, to guide the missiles. Jamming now, chaff, flares released, gently weave my jet in the thin upper air to add to the confusion. Multiple explosions far below, medium height stuff. We are too high. Just two reach our height, missing on a ballistic trajectory. Now level flight, wings level. 5,4,3,2,1 – bomb away!

My finger and my gal’s finger follow up auto release. Two minutes to detonation height of five thousand feet above Isfahan city centre. Everything in 15 miles would be destroyed, city, airbase, nuke site. A million plus dead and injured. More missiles, all ballistic. Not a single lock on, we did it!

Turn to escape heading, stay high to be safe for we were unarmed now. Our speed 630, our maximum. We would feel a moderate shockwave. Nothing more. We could have gone in low level but flak would have been a danger, as well as high fuel burn.

Flash! Whiteness, the touch of God. We did it! Targets destroyed. Time to go home...