casina.

an odor of roses ripens in the washbin as i demask and rinse my pores overbrimming with second-hand smoke and liquid foundation.
earlier i had been 70, a makeup-caked crippled sack, waddling, shouting--for who?--and pointing at the too beaten rugs on both the floor below sensible shoes and some heads.
this place has a look about it, like some bastardized gatsby midnight affair except everyone looks tired and no one's smiling.
they keep looking at the machines spinning and spinning, beeping, ringing, whistling,
i can hear them from every direction, ear-splitting siren's song ca ching, ca ching, e-machines replicating antiquated sounds for antiquated captured audience, tiny flitting flies bending toward the light.
what sadness is held in frail hands feeding faceless fat cats who keep eating and purring and offering drinks like sedatives from the russian flapper nurse. and when i could no longer hold out my hand, i returned to youth, my breasts realigned, my face again tight and beaming, and i think my sadness is better put into paper i can't spend.