Calling the pilot.
By Randall Stephen Hall. ©
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Here is one for father’s day.
My father died, in 1981 from heart problems. My last visual memory
of him is lying with an air mask and other clear plastic tubes, his life force ebbing away. He wasn’t a pilot. He was an architect.
In some ways, as a father, he was quite distant. A bit like watching a fighter pilot, high up in the sky. Hence the imagery of the song.
CALLING THE PILOT.
You are the pilot and I am the bomb.
Dropped from a height
Just like you, now you are gone.
You are the pilot I see by your mask
Sucking in air spitting out all your past.
Oh I am the bomb
You made me you know
Exploded right here, I came with the snow.
A baby from nothing, from just firing blanks.
I’m one of your bullets
So I’d like to say thanks.
So I’m calling and I’m singing to the pilot.
Your promises are still ringing in my ears.
Said you’re gonna bring me a toy
For your second little boy.
Lift me up Daddy and wipe away all my tears.
Pilots are special, they often go high
Flying a fighter across the blue sky.
They shot you down burning
Exploding in pieces.
I put you together with photograph slices.
My memory now is framed and imperfect.
Jerking and awkward in reels and in jigs.
Cinema, cinema, I sit by your side.
You seemed so distant, just trying to hide.
It’s hard to play daddy I know that myself
But flying too high you get lost on the shelf.
So come on land easy, the time’s all gone by.
I’m calling the pilot, come down from the sky.
For I am your bomb . . .
You are the pilot . . .
Pilots are special . . .
From photograph slices, oh farewell.