Breakfast is glum hams and grim
cheeses, and vodka – an
early assault on liver and spleen.
The decor is brassy fighting puritan,
and on the ceiling corner, the spider
swells in hectic bustle over her
network. Out of time, the butterfly
is devoured in strategic frenzy.
Ready to be trampled by regiments
of stag do troopers, the girl waits
by the bar. The pimp, swarming
in her currency, performs a frantic
balancing of dollars and roubles
while twitching curtains as if with
the nosy schemes of a suburbanite.
Pinballing bar to corridor, the pimp
squeals floored by a duo uniformed
in black leather setting upon him
with bestial, yet professional brutality.
Somewhere, a dog yowls strangely sweet.