<\/p>\n
Bia Hoi<\/strong><\/p>\n And it must be about the same time each night, perched of winding motorbike-runs. And people everywhere. But we on hot coals beside our feet. And when the traffic dies down one young boy carrying the amp, one carrying an upturned Conical hat. And <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Chris Guidon <\/strong>is a poet and short story writer from Kidderminster in the west-midlands. Chris continues to \u201csift through the murky silt of memory and of emotion for one shining moment of truth\u201d with his stark, taught and mercilessly introspective lines. Bia Hoi And it must be about the same time each night, perched on the little red plastic stools, too small for hairy western legs, around yellow plastic tables, sipping bia, watching the road jam-up when a few cars try to navigate the old-quarters tributary of winding motorbike-runs. And people everywhere. But we in […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2990","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2990","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2990"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2990\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2992,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2990\/revisions\/2992"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2990"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2990"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2990"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\non the little red plastic stools, too small for hairy western legs,
\naround yellow plastic tables, sipping bia, watching the road
\njam-up when a few cars try to navigate the old-quarters tributary<\/p>\n
\nin our oasis, sipping bia beneath the tree. And the booksellers
\nwith travel books hung around their necks on shelves. And
\nthe women in conical hats who cook foul smelling dried-squid<\/p>\n
\nand the bia goes down and the streets unwind and stretch out their tired
\nfeet beneath plastic yellow tables all over the quarter, you can hear
\nthe young singer, coming slowly along the road with his guitar,<\/p>\n
\nyou find change. And the sound is ghostly. And you can\u2019t even remember the
\ninanities of home. And even the chattering of the Hanoians with their toothpicks
\nand bad teeth and crooked smiles stops. And the echoing sound is a kind of soul.<\/p>\n
\n<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"