The shadowy bishop at work, testing the lavas, the imploding chestnuts, the ignited acorns...

20040901

Dear Old Horace Quintain



Military Affairs, Military Matters. All To Do About The Martial Art Of War...
AJAX Is Our Presiding Patron. Bleeding, Dying, We Nonetheless Salute,
A Smile On Our Hardened Masks, Our Short Broken Sword Aloft.



Eximious Specimen of the Warrior.
Name's Horace Quintain of the Schrapschropsnellstopshire Quintains.
Formaly formerly formaline of the Winged and Cavalry Corps, currently of the Calvary Corpse.
Poly-Retired cum -Decorated General, you bet.
I'm a Foreign of the Veteran Wars, and I drink my resilient residuous resinous whiskey straight
with a gay chaser of an ambulance stretcher with a gay inside.
So there, come on, chest forward and so forth. Don't make me come there, you stump!

I remember well his frequent expostulation: "We are blood of the martians!"


taking a peek:

laid earlier:

peeps me nose:

My photo
Under the speckled canopy / Where, along the autumnal whisper / Of fair weather, I walked, / The enkindled persimmon, / And then the flaming chestnut, / The imploded acorn, fell… /.../.../ My eyes, and nose, and ears, / And tongue, and skin, in joy / Praised such fragile perfection. .../.../