pablo, king of the juice

Sunday is the cleanest time for slipping through picking at stitches, the damp laundry of mourning sheets an afternoon drizzle High Tea and one last tipple. Sunday does the dirty. That first time I was passing glass one eye open on a poorly fitted blind, called on twice to step outdoors usher in an ambulance two undertakers Noah\’s boys

           measuring the stairs.

All the bullfighters are pissed gored we never much cared for them regardless those rained on Spanish sketches,

Pablo was another matter. A cold egg roll a Sunday broadsheet, a tabloid laid out on the dashboard. 10 years ironing out the grieving a sparrow\’s courting through one Sunday to the next a constant dash of claret propping up the Indian in his cups the Japanese brush and the ink this time scarcely dry on unsized paper. 

What stole onto the pillow slip a groan a blotted stain the size of Sicily spilled over the carpet incontinent.

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