Avoca Restaurant – Dreams of Veal



The undulating soggy satin dresses of the morning brunches. The women: “Oh! Where did you get that lipstick, it’s divine?!” “Oh! Where did you get the nail polish?!” . “Oh, those Manolo Blahniks. To die for. I simply must get a pair.” The hooves were banana yellow and she didn’t look all that great to be honest. Sunday Lunch in Avoca yesterday morning. Sandra was there with her thrifty knuckles festooned with winding silvers like asps winding around cinnamon sticks, winnowing through the heady no.5 air like a butterfly wing fluttering – glazed in white syrup, flowing through the ether like intoxicated cherubs wildly flapping through some Corsican forest canopy. The Louis Vitton bag sat limpid beside her, the LV insignia chiming sharply into the June air. Her pieces were modest, simple, yet gushed with all the knowledge and crass know-how of a woman who’s been trapped uncomfortably in a lift with a bellicose Kerryman or two – their rusty, bean bleached moustaches, coated in a phosphorescent, somewhat lyrical smudge of Guinness, cast iron and that sub-human sediment that gathers at the base of the Grand Canal. Sandra’s loins percolated, gushed, thrusting shards of invisible hissing pink and sultry lilacs among the subtle amber trinkets that loomed on the walls of the glass ceilinged oasis: a copper bucket of sybaritic consumption, ensconced between the fossil old valleys of Glendalough and Roundwood. Edward, gazing directly through the hazy tufts of sunshine issuing from Keogh’s farm down by the lane, as the swallows arced and nosedived, as the crepuscular shade tightened around the souls and the erstwhile Rioja bottles, the honey bee landing on the fig compote… Sandra opened her dribbling, moist beak..




Decaying Hollywood Queen engages in relentless reconstructive surgery. She becomes more and more haggard and grotesque with each savage flick of the surgeon’s knife. THE END.

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