one April dusk the
sallow street-lamps were turning
snowy against a west of robin’s egg blue when
i entered a mad street whose
 
mouth dripped with slavver of
spring
chased two flights of squirrel-stairs into
a mid-victorian attic which is known as
O ΠΑΡΞΕΝΩΝ
                      and having ordered
yaoorti from
Nicho’
settled my feet on the
 
ceiling inhaling six divine inches
of Haremina   in
the thick of the snick-
er of cards and smack of back-
 
gammon boards i was aware of an entirely
dirty circle of habitués their
faces like cigarettebutts, chewed
with disdain,     led by a Jumpy
 
Tramp who played each
card as if it were a thunderbolt red-
hot     peeling
off huge slabs of a fuzzy
 
language with the aid of an exclamatory
tooth-pick
And who may that
be i said exhaling into
 
eternity as Nicho’ laid
before me bread
more downy than street-lamps
upon an almostclean
 
plate
“Achilles”
said
Nicho’
 
“and did you perhaps wish also shishkabob?”

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