Behold, the air is cool and
Damp with fallen dews,
And my blood still ran cold
Whenever I remember
The terror of the
Sleepless night ahead,

Ah, my dear has still
Not returned with my love,
For the shrill silent cry
Of the insects have even
Penetrated the silent night,

My Perspex *** of love
Is virtually empty,
Oh no, it is empty indeed,
Which petite can go
To the Offin river side
This day dedicated to the Gods?

I sent the fast tortoise,
But she is not yet back,
May be, the dusky looking
Moon has enlightened
Her irreligious hope,

Fetch me a drink,
Oh my only Perspex ***,
Hold your breast with
Your reincarnated hands,
To stop them flapping
Noisily against your body,

Run dear, run!
For my heart is gazing
In your infinite direction,
Like a hen whose only
Chick has been carried away,

Awake, O north wind,
And come, O south!
Blow upon my heart,
That its spices may
Flow out impatiently,
Can the bat hear this?

Let my beloved come
And quench her garden,
And eat its pleasant honeydew
Fruits dropping from my lips,
My bank of scented roses,
My dove, my Perspex ***,
Come and fill my heart.


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: nanaspeaks@gmail.com

With mixed conversations aligned inside
our expectations don't always comply.
What could be wet could also be dry,
when we see other options offered in mind.

Hesitance often slows the path we possess
but a personal pace sustains motivation, and anyone's race can turn about face.
Is it really such a lonely road for an individual to search the unknown, testing their growth.

We usually follow what seems set out in front, concurrent ideas and beliefs seep through us.
The leaves of the trees determine the falls, as time spaced apart often changes our attitude.

The landscape of life will transform with a call, through those cycles we bind to vary our mindset. Lessons for all are shown but not always learnt, as repetitive tones tend to compliment worth.

Listen to the figures above, providing purpose when we're feeling deep or down on our luck. The answers can vary and we have to choose, but there are no limits as we continue on through.

They call it a depression because it is like sinking.

It's like sinking in a perspex box. You can see the help, you can hear the muffled voices as you start to go under but they just can't get to you.

But what if you realised that that perspex box was in fact a bubble, and that bubbles float and that you could stay afloat until you could see it through. You could see through the haze and see this despair in all its transparency: it's pain and pain subsides, these tides won't take you under. You're not trapped in a perspex box, you're in a bubble, a compromised barrier easily popped and they will reach out to you , their voices will become clear, hold out your hand, lend an ear...listen and they will listen back.

She's been enjoying her time while living and working in London.

And Nicole Kidman was clearly thrilled to be one of the star guests at The 60th Women Of The Year Luncheon & Awards in the British capital on Monday afternoon.

The 48-year-old actress - who is currently starring in West End play Photograph 51 - cut a beautiful figure in a multi-tonal lace dress as she arrived at the prestigious event, held at the InterContinental London Park Lane.

The willowy beauty covered her slim figure in the mid-length dress, made up of several different lace panels in pale lilac, purple, yellow, black and white.

Cinching in at her slender waistline, the dress billowed out into a full A-line skirt, and also included long sleeves.

A Victoriana-style high-necked black lace section finished off the gorgeous garment, giving her a serene, ladylike air.

The Australia actress teamed the eye-catching dress with a pair of strappy black heels with pointed toes, and a tiny black box clutch.

Her pale red locks were swept back into a chic updo, her mid-length fringe framing her face.

The actress' bright blue eyes were highlighted with just a touch of mascara, and her beauty look was pulled together with a pretty pink shade on her lips.

Nicole was one of many star guests at the annual central London event, held to honour amazing women across all industries.

The famous event, which paid special tributes to six remarkable women from all fields, saw plenty of other star guests in attendance, with 400 in total at the luncheon.

After rising to fame as the winner of this year's The Great British Bake Off, Nadiya Hussain was one of the star attendees at the highly-significant ceremony.

The talented baker and busy mum, 30, rocked a simple and chic ensemble of slim-fitting black trousers and a crisp blue blazer, and bright turquoise heels.

Another familiar face was singer/songwriter Katie Melua, who opted for a cool androgynous ensemble.

The Call Off The Search hitmaker showed off her lovely long legs in a pair of black leather trousers, teamed with a sheer white blouse, a blazer and a cute black ribbon ******* around the collar.

Writer-comedian-actress Meera Syal rocked a typically unconventional ensemble as she arrived, cutting a striking figure in a bold patterned shirt dress with a lovely long black scarf and a jacket thrown over the top.

Princess Diana's glamorous niece Lady Kitty Spencer channelled a power-dressing 1980s vibe in a standout black shirt dress with bright, colourful buttons donw the front.

The pretty blonde finished her luncheon look with a chunky white clutch bag and perspex heels.

Choreographer and former Strictly Come Dancing star Arlene Phillips was a chic addition to the guest list in a figure-hugging red dress, and TV presenter and journalist Julie Etchingham wowed in an understated taupe dress with an origami-folded skirt and matching cropped jacket.

Also in attendance were the likes of Dame Esther Rantzen, TV's Lorraine Kelly - who was glorious in a gold lace frock - Maureen Lipman, Mary Nightingale, Jo Brand and

The Women of the Year winners were whittled down and chosen by a panel of notable, accomplished women: Sandi Toksvig CBE, Sue MacGregor CBE, Dame Tessa Jowell MP, Baroness Doreen Lawrence OBE, Jane Luca, Ronke Phillips, Eve Pollard OBE, Lisa Markwell, Gill Carrick and Sue Walton.

And viewers of popular morning programme, ITV's Lorraine, were also able to vote for their Inspirational Woman of the Year via a phone poll.

Sandi, President of the Women of the Year Awards, said: 'Women of the Year has celebrated the wonderful achievements of women since 1955.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/mermaid-trumpet-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

i'm sick to death of this stinking routine
perpetual day time TV,
petty bickering
afternoon pub binges
hopeless job hunting morons everywhere,
i return to my hometown
to the place i was made, molded
created
and it suffocates me like never before
i think of the many reasons i left
they circle my thoughts for a long while
and then i'm left with one
one that overrides the lot
it takes a while to spit it out
because it's corny, it's stupid, it's not how we work
but
it's love
and the lack of it
the love here is in the mundane
the easy,
the norm.
it's not in the heart
the love around here lies in
television sets
and pirate DVDs
reduced chicken and new coffee machines
gambles on abused horses
saturday afternoons in the local
cheap holidays to Benidorm
a day trip to lidl
a weekday evening watching the soaps
a phonecall to a family member you don't care about
hours playing candy crush
the love has lost on us humans
the love here, it was lost on me too
it missed me out
they missed me out
it has instead transferred in this
reality tv, selfie indulgent zeitgeist
it has left our silly bodies
and i'm still clinging on
trying to dissapear from that
new century bubble
trying to pick up pieces
of that porcelain mosaic
that old style bric a brac
so long ago forgotten
pressure is everywhere
notifications beep
this tiny block of perspex
waiting to be touched
waiting to be in communication
with someone at the other side of the city
the other side of the world
oh what a sad existence
when all we love is through the inanimate
and not ourselves
but hey thats the way of the world
and we have to accept it
or hate it
because we can't do both
we have to accept our fast paced tumultuous society
always moving through space and time
at times, difficult
painful
hard
sore
but consumerism, capitalism and cronyism
it all exists in this big society
this 'we're all in it together' society
and it cant be ignored.

We know as children that you shouldn’t stare directly at the sun,
“You’ll go blind!” parents say. Still, we take mischievous glances,
Scared, brave. Trying to separate the perfect, lemony roundness, from the burnished halo all around.
I remember standing on the front path of my Aunts house,
Eagerly waiting for a solar eclipse, the pebbledash grazing my back.
4 children staring boldly through a square of tinted Perspex. It was novel.
The first time I looked at you, I looked away, eyes glaring, seeing white.
It was like looking at the sun, I needed the dull, brown tint.
Eyes adjusted. “Hiya!” you yelled. Golden

In the moments after the rain,
Look at the sun, in the moist air hangs a rainbow;
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet.
You’ve worn them all, not a colour left alone.
Joseph looks on, jealous, in his dull, lifeless overcoat.
You’re a solid rainbow, one that you can touch, feel, put your arms around.
Laugh with, learn with, drink with, dance with, love with.
A rainbow personified.

For L.C

Eight years old or so
I'm condemned to a joke
but I never understand the punchline
I just figure it's all a hoax.
Padded cells and restrained holds.
Perspex acrylic windows
render my spit useless.
My captors are fully grown
but I've seen the breadth of their moral compass
They will fold on it shortly now, I know they will.
Though they never do.

I'm fifteen years old give or take
when I lose my first child.
It was never born, but I know I wanted it.
I pretend I am not sure because
there's a lot of heat and pressure
cooking my heart, engulfing my head.

Crying over the phone to my girlfriend
a painful necessity, something my soul needs.
We are too young, careless, reckless,
confused and surrounded by ogling eyes.
I haven't had a lump of hot coal in my throat before
but it sure feels like I have when I try to speak.
Especially with my parents.

Pause, rewind
I'm six years old,
my younger sister is four,
my youngest is two.
My dad enters my play room.
Proceeds to tell me he's leaving home.
He won't be living with us anymore
but he'll always be my dad and
I'll always be his favourite and only son.

Dry my eyes and fast forward, please.
A little bit past devastation,
we'll stop somewhere around reckoning.
It's right after desperation.
I am fifteen years old again, some time has passed
since my unborn child left its mother
as nothing more than matter and blood.
The mother has left me.
Probably because
she was in even more pain than I
and wanted to confide and find comfort
anywhere else but in me.
I never could heal the wounds I helped to create.

It's time for work experience, I'm sixteen soon.
That's practically an adult in the UK
I get to work Queens' College May ball.
Maybe this time everything will be okay.
Shadowing sound technicians.
Sneakily drink the free *****,
since I always look much older.
Sun rises, I'm drunk and my mouth is dry.
I think I'll walk home.

Mum picks me up, I don't even remember why.
My hometown is only five miles across
I've travelled the best of it and then some.
Yet my gaze never left the sky.
I want to escape myself so badly I leap from the moving car.
I'm crying in the car one minute,
I'm crying on a roundabout of a dual carriageway the next.
The police arrive and mum's crying now.
Begging never worked before but this time it does.
The police officer says something about section one three six
and I am taken.

Whilst I wish I could have realised sooner,
I think I get the message now.
Perhaps I was never meant to achieve great things.
Or ever meant to find happiness in my life.
It could be that I was never meant to be anything
other than what I am and what I am
is the embodiment of sadness.
Unhappiness is tangible around me.
You can feel it, touch it and see it.
I can taste it and smell it, I breathe it.

It's me.
Me and me alone, surrounded by faces but alone.
The thought of loneliness is lonely indeed.
When thoughts are just emotions' greed
and it's our own expectations of life
that make it harder to succeed.
I've travelled cold, a road with no milestones.
Only icy tipped hurdles that are mountains
and I can't catch my sadness,
and I can't catch my breath.

She is known to stand out from the crowd.

And Jessica Hart made sure all eyes were on her in a shimmering golden gown as she attended the God’s Love We Deliver, Golden Heart Awards at Spring Studio in New York on Thursday night.

The 29-year-old Australian beauty turned heads in the dazzling sequined mini dress as she oozed Hollywood glamour for the star studded event.

The former Victoria's Secret model showcased her trim and tanned pins in the shift dress which boasted long sleeves which Jessica rolled up to her elbows.

The dress featured a number of metallic hues including silver and bronze which perfectly matched her strappy silver high heels.

Proving why she is a catwalk favourite, the 1.77 metre tall statuesque stunner flashed her trademark gap-toothed grin for the cameras on the red carpet of the glittering A-list gala.

In-keeping with the graceful theme of her look, Jessica wore her luscious blonde locks in an elegant up do to showcase her striking ****** features.

She sported copper-coloured eye shadow which added to her glittering ensemble, while her flawless complexion was accentuated with a light powdering of foundation.

Jessica let her spotlight stealing dress speak for itself as she opted for minimal accessories, wearing just a single ring on her left hand and a pair of diamond encrusted stud earrings, whilst carrying a perspex clutch which contained her wallet and phone.

The supermodel attended the event solo as her boyfriend of three years, billionaire Stavros Niarchos III - was not at her side.

However instead, Jessica mingled with a handful of her model pals including Toni Garnn and Cameron Russell.

With long legs and a small waist, genetically blessed Jessica knows how to rock her enviable figure.

She recently opened up about her body in the October issue of Cosmopolitan Australia, revealing how she manages to stay in shape.

'I have a private trainer, he’s a Pilates teacher, a yoga teacher and a personal trainer all in one,' she admitted.

'And when I can’t work out I just try to eat a little less pasta!'

Meanwhile, Jessica lives with her beau Stavros in New York's trendy East Village, with rumours surfacing earlier this year that the pair were engaged.

But with no official word yet from the couple as to whether nuptials are impending, they seem happy living a relatively quiet life with their competing busy schedules.

Stavros famously dated Olsen twin Mary-Kate for several years, as well as controversial socialite Paris Hilton.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne

The artist only used black,
he wouldn't say why his mum named him after a King

in palaces where feral children investigate
the mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle from their sofa where

they translated “idiot savant” as
stupid servant was written on permanent files

somewhere hidden alongside
DVDs that were posted on line showing monkeys in boxes
throwing themselves to death against perspex walls

splattering Rorschach patterns of childish nightmares,
the boogeyman.

A butterfly.

All is well except
That the wall is made
Of perspex, transparent
And her wings hit against it without
Making any sound
While
The rift she treasures on her sternum is
Cicatrizing under the sun at seven o’clock
In the morning, while
The smell of flowers is piercing through the path of cold and
The smell of ***, the memory of the stolen candle, twenty
Meters running under the pouring rain, inside
My ears, the city is swimming in
The dark
And it’s ours.
Dismantled.
It hurts.
The taste of the broken tooth, the
Badly stitched dream, and no need to say it:
the waiting.
While the hand is pushing, the shouts
Are drawing strange vortexes
Under the hair and
The air continuously recycled
Is ingesting
Massive amounts of
Darkness
As
You advance
Defying the butterflies
Adjusting your heel
From time to time.

I’ll light another cigarette
As the Roman candles burn,
Lace the atmosphere with lamented regret
And tear it away before it slips into the chain of deterioration.

I’ll cut out my tongue
While there’s something left to say
I’ll retain the mystery
Whilst the rest is lost to history.
With adoration as a breaking point
I’ll feel each part of me disjoint
Under the pressure.
I’m just another guilted plague-
Haunting the crypts of nature
When the morality bomb drops
I’ll collect the shards
Use poetry as a Perspex,
Desire as a casket
I’ll build wordless pyres
Under motionless fires
And choke the concordance
With a suffocating breath of ecstasy
Until my lungs are transplanted with ivy
Disrupts the chemistry
As hydrogen tears through me
And we burn under element number one.

Tarac Ridge Warplane crashes February 8-10 2018 write up by Nick Armbrister



I have had an interest in aeroplanes and history ever since my dad got me into planes back in 1980. He took me up to air crashes on the Pennines/Peak District/Manchester/Yorkshire/Lancashire area of England in the early 80s. There are over fifty crashes alone here ranging from the war years and later. We also went to wrecks in the Lake District and Wales.

In 2014 in the Philippines I went to more wrecks. I Googled Bataan warplane crashes and found out about the LT Stone P-40 Warhawk and Sgt Kurosawa Ki-27 Nate dog fight and subsequent crashes. This read like something from a Battle or Warlord comic.

Over the coming weeks I put together an expedition there. I talked to Kevin Hamdorf who was one of the group who found the P-40 wreck. He gave me much info and introduced me to the guide, Noel. Without his help the trip wouldn’t have been possible.

We went to the crash area at Tarac Ridge on February 8-10 2018. This was the 76th anniversary of it. We went to the P-40 on Feb 9 and the Ki-27 on the 10th.

The crashes are over a kilometer up altitude wise. We had to hike many hours through the forest/jungle and mountain to the area. We camped at the lower campsite. There is an easier site at the top of the mountain near Kurosawa’s Nate which is less than a hundred feet below the area. Because we never camped there we had to ascend the final hour to the summit each day.

The Warhawk site of Stone is hundreds of feet below Kurosawa’s in the forest on the mountain side. Little remains today but bits of alloy, Perspex, glass and other small fragments. We found these. Lt Stone is still listed as MIA Missing In Action. One of our group, Mike, searches for MIAs. We took hundreds of photos of the area and of our search.

I ventured up to the Nate site of Sgt Kurosawa on the last day of our three day stay. It was at the summit. We had to go through thick brush/jungle to the location. Kurosawa hit a rock face and his plane was fragmented. The engine used to be there but has since been removed. There is less at this site than at Stone’s P-40. We found bits of metal, Perspex and bits. Looking at the closeness to the summit, I realized that Kurosawa almost made it.

Nobody but God and the pilots know who shot down whom and who was on the other’s tail that day. The result is the same: two warplanes wrecked and two pilots dead. Maybe more answers will be found on future expeditions. It was a great experience to go there to Tarac Ridge, Mariveles, Bataan. In time I hope to return. This was my first international warplane trip. I want to go to a Grumman F-6F Hellcat at Capas next.

Every word's a path,
each sentence a tree
and all attached to a stump of a woman
thin at the base then growing in circles,
until age is defined by height,
her illness by weight.

How can the wood of trench walls
look so lucid, perspex branches
contorting into string in the wind,
knotting air into eddies keeping them
floating right there?

being a discarded paper bag
in a sunbleached ditch roadside
moment, i rode past on the
stifled cycled exhaust fumes of
the intercity from oamaru back
home: second home, fifth home; how
many times have i left home,
now? being a stinging
sensation in the back of the
throat of some lost child
(me), some lost ******
human (obviously
me), this is the only thing
i'll ever regret being a
{oh, i am just a}
thought process cycling,
stifled, thinking, through
ultraviolet-polarised perspex
there, with
you with him, and he's
making you smile, and my
head hurts
just
a little more and i
fall
a little further down, like
apples drop from trees, like
lies drop from your insides,
and i mutter something stupid and true,
like: "i'll get over it this
time" and stay still stay
still, i will get over it this
time, just i, yours {never} truly. so, do
you get that feeling
like you're losing something,
(because i don't need you)
like you're caught mid-fading,
(because i don't want you)
but you can't figure out why?

i hope you feel it in your smile
tonight, darling.

there is lavender
in the fire, someone
is tapping
on the window, patterned
with cracked kings and
predecessors.

sarah’s bible, hand held,
open via perspex
and blue velvet
at ecclesiastes
chapter three.

to everything
there is a
feafon, etc,
in italics.

sbm.

I met a seer at the bingo hall who seemed to know the number of every ball before it rose up that perspex tube.
It is dubious sort of man who can predict four corners or a line and then have time to prophesize about what prize he's going to get.
I bet he was such fun to know before he felt he had to go and spoil my day.
And I don't like bingo anyway.

I've built a barrier around my space
with walls the colour of a winter sunrise.
and though your mood creeps up against them,
they hold.

featureless eyes propel borderline perverseness

my finger breaks sharply as i press record

the phone line stretched of its own accord

stop and pause but don't turn back

a whimpering couch held up by ropes

emulsified beginnings of dreams and hopes

she paints pain, holes lead to nowhere

lesions torn, shriveled stalk, i care

my shell broken, becomes hair, i tear

***** from my eyes into her mouth

an acetate surfaces to the edge of my mind

i cant speak or see, for i am blind

ink, blood and snot slick my skin

my mirror haunted by the perspex grin

grab hold but the wrists are thin

broken

crushed

swept under

dead

you mean nothing

We were out on a training mission
Up in a Neptune, hunting a sub,
The pilot was Captain Grissom
Taking a nap, aye, that was the rub,
The plane was on auto-pilot
Left in the hands of Lieutenant Free,
While I was down in the nose cone
Keeping a watch, beneath us the sea.

The skies were a starlit wonder
Never a cloud to temper the view,
The Moon, it had barely risen
Casting its light with a purple hue,
We’d dropped right down to a thousand feet
As the sonar checked the bay,
Then Free had said, ‘There’s a flock of birds,
Just a couple of miles away.’

The plotters gave out a chatter
Picking the signals up from the buoys,
The Snifter, it didn’t matter
It was detecting diesel oils,
But up on the pilot’s radar screen
Was a mass of darkened rows,
I heard Free say on the intercom:
‘It’s a swarm of migrant crows.’

We knew we’d better not hit them
They could be ****** into the pods,
And then if they clogged the jets our fate
Would be in the hands of gods,
I peered on out through the perspex cone
It was much too dark to see
A couple of thousand crows out there
With feathers as black as could be.

Free said we should duck beneath them
So he took us down real low,
The shapes had massed on the radar screen
There couldn’t be far to go,
And then I had caught a sight of them
The first of these flying things,
My voice croaked into the intercom,
‘None of these crows have wings.’

They flew on the straight and level
Bunched in groups of two or three,
I knew they were something nasty,
Then I heard Lieutenant Free,
He seemed to choke, he’s a rational bloke
And couldn't believe his eyes,
‘If you can see what they are, tell me,
Don’t give me a bunch of lies.’

But who’d be the first to say it,
I was pensive, down in the cone,
Nothing I’d say would mend it
If I was first to say on my own,
‘It looks like a flight of witches
All in black, and each on a broom,’
The crew back there were in stitches
Thinking that I was a ****** Toon.

The coven dived on an island
Covered in trees, and out in the bay,
I thought that we might collect one
But we gave them the right of way,
‘We’ll tell them, when we get back,’ said Free,
That it was a flight of crows,
Don’t anyone talk about witches, for
It’s best if nobody knows.’

David Lewis Paget

'I don't want to burn...'

Otto flew onwards.
It was a joyous flight.
Then trouble hit again.
His other worst fear.
Engine failure!

Must land.
Where where where?
Altitude has gone.

Trees are so close.
Wrong place to crash!
Touching close.

Want to close my eyes.
But I must to see my end.
Drop the ***** to glide longer.

There!
A field.
Thank God!

I can make that.
Keep the nose down.
Don't want to stall.

I can do this!
Dead stick landing.
I was trained for this.
Here we go!
Bump!

Bump and slide.
**** that's rough.
My warplane is sliding.
Come on now, stop!

Oh crap!
A ditch, right across the...

Mama save me again!
I don't want to die.
Mutti!

Otto came too and shook his head.
His vision was blurred and pained him.
A sweet smell wafted towards him.
The drip of petrol was audible.

He panicked and dug at the brown earth.
It was mixed with broken Perspex, above him.
Undoing his straps, Otto tried to escape.
The broken canopy trapped him.

Drip drip drip went the gas.
Then... just out of his vision.
A boy, aged about eleven.

Help! Help me! Hurry. Please!

The boy ran over.
Looked at the inverted plane.
And saw the trapped pilot.
Did he know that Otto was the enemy?
And had killed his father?

Otto flung off his flying goggles.
They made eye contact.

Help me! Hurry now.

The boy found a steel bar.
With the intelligence of the young,
he levered against the wing.
It leant against the ditch edge.
Moved with a sickening jolt.

There was a gap.
It was enough.

Otto dug at the earth and cut his hand.
Bending double, he crawled out.

Drunkenly standing, he looked at his plane.
He shook his head and felt his broken ****** nose.
Then fell to his knees and vomited.
Fractured ribs knifed him.

Otto passed out.
When he looked up, the boy was gone.
Without him, I'd be dead...