pms wrote:
>
> Sure, the Tallies are looney, violent sexist scum, but so are
> many of the US allies fighting them. What about that Uzbek Prez Bush has
> been holed up with in DC? What about Sharon, baddy-wise? Your moral
> certainty feels comfy. Wish I could have it/
Joan Smith, _Misogynies_ (New York, 1989), from "Crawling from the Wreckage," pp. 122-143.
**** You have to pity the poor USAF bomber pilot. There he is in his flying suit, his reflecting aviator glasses, and his multi-million dollar machine, all dressed up and nowhere to go. . . .Sorties like the one against Libya in 1986 are, for political reasons, pretty rare. Meanwhile, all he has to do is wait; wait, think, and dream. Sometimes he is moved to write down his dreams, as did a group of pilots from the USAF 77th Tactical Fighter Squadron stationed at Upper Heyford in Oxfordshire. . . .pamphlet called the _Gambler's Song Book_. The Introduction . . . .reads:
This book is our thoughts and, our songs and
our games. Lesser individuals who have never
strapped their asses to a piece of flaming
metal will consider these of little or no
redeeming social value. Because of this, the
songs contained in this book are held as sacred
by those of us who have. . . .over 75 years of
tradition. A tradition that will never die as
long as enemy aggression challenges for
supremacy of the skies and free men rise to
defeat them. "Anything else is rubbish.' [1]
Smith, pp. 122-23
Some of the poems are relatively mild:
Nearing the target, our nerves they are STEADY
Switches are thrown and we got us a READY
Bay doors are open, the jobs [sic] almost done
Killing those Commies, we're having some fun
When the shit fills up your flight suit
And you're feeling had, just simply remember that
Big mushroom cloud, and then you won't feel so BAD.
Smith, p. 124 and
Phantom flyers in the sky,
Persian-pukes prepare to die,
Rolling in with snake and nape,
Allah creates but we cremate.
Smith p. 125
But then they get down to business. as in "Ghost Fuckers in the Sky"
An old cowpoke went riding out
One dark and windy day
Stopped beneath a shady tree
And paused to beat his meat
When all at once a slant-eyed bitch
Came ridin' down the trail
He stopped her and asked her
How 'bout a piece of tail?
Her tits were all a floppin'
Her cunt ate out with clap
He socked it to her anyway
And gave her ass a slap
She shit, she moaned
She threw him from her crack
He rolled across the desert
And broke his fucking back.
Smith p. 126
Smith notes in her comment, "The song is fatalistic; the protagonist unquestioningly accepts his fate" (;. 126). But:
This is not the case throughout the book. . . ."I Fucked a Dead Whore":
I fucked a dead whore by the road side,
I knew right away she was dead.
The skin was all gone from her tummy,
The hair was all gone from her head.
And as I lay down there beside her,
I knew right away that I had sinned.
So I pressed my lips to her sweet pussy,
And sucked out the wad I'd shot in.
Sucked out, sucked out,
I sucked out the wad I'd shot in.
Sucked out, sucked out,
I sucked out the wad I'd shot in.
Smith, pp. 126-27
And then, "These Foolish Things (Remind me of You)":
Ten pounds of tittie in a loose brassiere
A twat that twitches like a mouses [sic] ear,
Ejaculation in my glass of beer
These foolish things remind me of you.
A pubic hair upon my breakfast roll,
A bloody Kotex in my toilet bowl,
The smelly fragrance of your fat asshole,
These foolish things remind me of you.
A sloppy blowjob in a taxicab,
A cunt that's covered with syphilitic scabs,
These foolish things remind me of you.
Smith p. 128
***********
Joan Smith is a journalist, not a political or social analyst, and her explanations are on the whole unsatisfactory. But these poems from the 77th Squadron do give an indication of the willing tools the high war criminals in Washington can rely on. The whole of her book is worth reading.
Carrol