I | Dear Helen, I find myself looking out of the window across the fields, the morn’ is cold and crisp, it carries my thoughts to you. I can hear water trickling down the gutters, it’s quiet this morning, there’s a frost on the ground and through the mist, I can see old Bob trudging his way across the furrows to- wards his plough. I’m not wishing you were here - but longing to be with you all the same. I’m sending you this information first hand, in the only way I know how, I feel I have to. I’ve been forced around a lot lately. I had this - this annoying dream, about detonators and arms, things are happening I just don’t under- stand. And there’s this place - I returned there a second time, but no-one knows. I’m climbing over this forbidden wall, and I swear, as clear as cut crystal, I see weap- ons, tanks, lasers and aircraft moving across the sky. I watch silently as strange men bend their heads in conversation, but their words mean nothing to me. They talk of a storm, a storm of guns, missiles and nuclear ammunition. There’s spy cameras, intruding satellites and infrared sen- sors. Blue skies seem to have left the horizon and it’s taken on new colours. And peace no longer have any business in our waters, for bright is the shadow of the fish, ships cut down horses on the sea. Traffic lights are down and all the electrical systems fall through. Kids are stealing cars and setting them on fire, it’s a game. Shrapnel and garbage litter the ground. Homeless live by the roadside, daily ravaging the rubble for reminders of a once more passionate existence. God, and the machines and cannons, I can hear them from the Abbey, when I pray - The storm just overflows without you. Armed soldiers guard and watch my every move, I start to run, come up against a barbed wire fence, it’s lined with firing range notices and marks our boundaries. Yeah. Come up the streets, tension as the tanks move in. War games in our quiet country lanes, strange men threatening our lives. Listen to what I’m not saying as I leave you now I feel like some traveller returned. Benjamin, Jayne Harrison BRADLEY-DECEMBER 1989 Singing with old friends on the breakwater- solace by the sea you standing beside me strange feelings devoted to no one (nothing). Noncomprehension bouncing backwards, reflected- there you are there you were no moments ago. A grown man now, you don’t play silly games J.R.A. Whittla NH XVIIL Planet of the Arts Vol 5 Issue 4 , DEATH BY JET I want to be wrapped in the shroud of your dangerous love to tumble helplessly in your strong arms and never know commitment again. Just you and me and lust. J.R.A. Whittla LITHO ISN’T MACHO Toiling, yellow ink pressed into stone resist, attract and scratch not enough alone. Polish, remove the image from the stone grind, labour and lift the flesh from the bone. J.R.A. Whittla el jot poe poet crypt poet type pet Dear Helen, Ifind myself looking out of the window across the fields, the mom’ is cold and crisp, it carries my thoughts to you. Ican hear water trickling down the gutters, it’s quiet this morning, there’s a frost on the ground and through the mist, I can see old Bob trudging his way across the furrows to- wards his plough. T’'m not wishing you were here - but longing to be with you all the same, T’'m sending you this information first hand, in the only way I know how, I feel I have to. I’ve been forced around a lot lately. I had this - this annoying dream, about detonators and arms, things are happening I just don’t under- stand. And there’s this place - I returned there a second time, but no-one knows. I'm climbing over this forbidden wall, and I swear, as clear as cut crystal, I see weap- ons, tanks, lasers and aircraft moving across the sky. I watch silently as strange men bend their heads in conversation, but their words mean nothing to me. They talk of a storm, a storm of guns, missiles and nuclear ammunition. There’s spy cameras, intruding satellites and infrared sen- sors. Blue skies seem to have left the horizon and it’s taken on new colours. And peace no longer have any business in our waters, for bright is the shadow of the fish, ships cut down horses on the sea. Traffic lights are down and all the electrical systems fall through. Kids are stealing cars and setting them on fire, it’s a game. Shrapnel aud garbage litter the ground. Homeless live by the roadside, daily ravaging the rubble for reminders of a once more passionate existence. God, and the machines and cannons, I ‘can hear them from the Abbey, when I pray - ‘The storm just overflows without you. Armed soldiers guard and watch my every move, I start torun, come up against a barbed wire fence, it's lined with firing range notices and marks our boundaries. Yeah. Come up the streets, tension as the tanks move in. War games in our quiet country lanes, strange men threatening our lives. Listen to what I'm not saying as I leave you now I feel like some traveller returned. Benjamin, Jayne Harrison BRADLEY-DECEMBER 1989 Singing with old friends on the breakwater- solace by the sea you standing beside me Strange feelings devoted to no one (nothing), Noncomprehension bouncing backwards, reflected- there you are there you were no moments ago. ‘A grown man now, you don’t play silly games SRA. Witla XVIITL Planot ofthe Arts Vol §Iasue 4 Pi Pe ie DEATH BY JET I want to be wrapped in the shroud ‘of your dangerous love to tumble helplessly in your strong arms and never know commitment again. Just you and me sae lest JRA Woitla LITHO ISN’T MACHO Toiling, yellow ink pressed into stone resist, attract and scratch not enough alone. Polish, remove the image from the stone grind, labour and lift the flesh from the bone. JRA. Whitia