Quinn’s

Posted on by wind65

In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.

And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.

And damn!
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! — are put on hold,
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.

For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.

No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks’ porcelain.

Quinn's

Hashish reviewed by Ashley Chapman

Posted on by wind65

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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 sailor and later a prolific writer. 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 was 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, and then on past Eritrea, and Yemen 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

Posted on by wind65

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 grayish, turquoise-blue,
Snow.

That scene:
On the edge,
Where the stillness
Knows.

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Fakir Flake Fake

Posted on by wind65

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 of a 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 am.

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.

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