Hashish

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I came upon a reference to this book at the Cruising Association’s marine library in London’s Limehouse. It was in a pilot for the Red Sea and it has taken me until now to find a copy. It was worth the wait.
Tintin and Malto Cortes were influenced by Henry de Monfried, an adventurer and later a prolific writer, and it was great to discover one of their original sources.
This is a fantastic adventure yarn with descriptions of natural occurrences that are often as beautiful as they are wild. Monfried is an elegant and entertaining writer and possessed of a wisdom that is Oriental, even while he is a very modern man.
You learn much about the Arabian Red Sea from Djibouti, Aden, then on past Eritrea, and Yemen and on to Egypt. He writes of a time before World War II that is accessible and human, full of conceit and treachery but also of courage and nobleness where disaster is never far off.

A warm story teller, illuminating a reality of — as yet! — not fully exploited potential, which he strode in the best tradition of Sinbad the Sailor; utterly captivating.

See the book at https://store.kobobooks.com/en-GB/ebook/hashish?utm_campaign=BookReviewAdr&utm_medium=Social&utm_source=App_Acq #KoboReview #BookReview

Knows

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I awoke,

With Mountains in their heights,

That spoke,

Of memories that wove,

Through knees, thighs and pubic bone —

To the inky waters of the lake below.

 

In that cabin, where the sable pines

Enclose,

And all about,

From coral-white

To greyish, turquoise-blue,

Snow.

 

That scene:

On the edge,

Where the stillness

Knows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fakir Flake Fake

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Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings ov’e butterfly.

Good, and so you ought.

Now, grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.

Millions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam’s sons; Eve’s daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of semi-conscious memories;
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world; know how dead, inside, I feel.

You, yes, you:

Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford:
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law;
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind in here,
In hair, hear her: har, har, har…

A box of lies…

A voice, Mercer’s,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in;
Al Jerry’s, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.

The real thing, the men, the women, their animals,
Made in the wild, wild desert, in the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea; now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart, My Child, now its imitation.

Spring in Reverse

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As the new moon rises fat on blood,

And feelings high run,

Silence is no longer held, and panic erupts in the heart of Europe,

And a corruption unfettered, brings

A festival of carnage,

To darken where light should have dismissed the vestige of winter gone.

Instead a massacre,

Silence as we hang our heads in sorrow for the innocent who will never now be heard,

While lunatics bloated on moonshine,

Clip the yellow bud of spring,

Leaving us to embrace the dead season’s ghost.