A man was hanged for suicide. (1860, London)

She watched.

‘Oh My Mary!’

A venerable tradition sanctified by both Church and State.

He cut his throat but survived. The doctor warned the neck would split
and breath would
through the wound.
But no one listened.

An unexpected twist to a public execution.
So the dangling man breathed through his
throat and suicide saved him hanging. They
all stood around watching for a while. Then
bound the neck below the slit until he died.

‘Oh My Mary!’ Said a man to the prostitute he had reformed and was now
slowly educating, slowly dating, though she liked it fast. They were a handsome
couple; him the alcoholic Russian exile, her the beauty tease of shitty streets.
It was romance in those days of dankness and their lust unfurled in the dust.


Drowned the whole world. Made us carcasses.

Inter gladium et jugulum

Death softly placed her tongue in his palm and promised
a night of sexy spasms and bread with pretty women.

‘Dispose of all memories discreetly,’ said she.
He weakly agreed.