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Showing posts from March, 2019

Casual thoughts of someone raised in grappa

Is it comfort I find in glittering glass filled with potions? Or is it a distorted idea of inspiration?
The sparkling and squeaking of clean bottles on the shelf. All filled with colour and shimmer.
I am no alcoholic.
Only a writer, whose muse sometimes is clicking bottles, glasses and mixers. Whose eternally drunken eyes can see, in a glass bottle, the sand it was made from. A writer who, eternally drunk or high on something beyond life, sees colours and patterns that no hand nor nature can ever make.
And I see beyond, the grapes and redcurrants that have been pressed, the barrels, the heat, the sweat that goes into a bottle, filled with liquid.

I am just, sitting at a bar in Covent Garden called Cafe Murano, I have had a cappuccino, a gin and tonic and something unknown that tastes like a subtle, very subtle red grappa. Stubbornly making someone wait for me while I wonder at this lovely but unplanned bar simply because I can. I have a fever and I don't know, if it's that tal…