Casimir

Lanterns. Burning light. Trapped in glass. Saying we were sorry to the cards. As they careened across the carpet. Deals we made long ago. Asthma of the cunt. Suffocating tired tongues. Speeches. Rafts. Going over the falls. In barrels made of skin.

Seldom is the beginning. Too often is the end.

Madness is living just to live. Genius is knowing when to die.

The sewer in his kiss. Searching for synonyms. The cradle sleeping around us as we jostle it into submission. The tattletale of touch in each press on the bed springs. The ache. Leaden genitals tearing away from useless bodies. Our endeavours as useless as our expectations.

The atoms on his tongue. Splitting wildly. The measure of his manhood. in the shallow of my pain. The vague of the bomb catching up to us.

Everything was gone. Nothing had changed.

I wasn't even close.