Boredom in a Bordello

Cots creak in damp dark cavernous chambers. Cats curl up in the corners coated with inchthick incrustations of pigeon poop. Dirty yellow electric bulb light bounces off the powder-dusted decotellages of decked-up dolls. The dank corridors are stalked by shadows, men and mice hulk with their hushed hungover hunger, coarse laughter rings in the hallways, clinging to the ceilings like the rancid smell from the unwashed armpits of a crowd of hairy barrel and bare chested men in the throes of urgent and anesthetic lovemaking, while weary whore-mothers take breaks from work to wean their wards. Seraglio-frequenting syphillitic ex-Sultans, brash businessmen with portly potbellied posturing, pompous prison-returned pimps peddling and purveying, malevolently-mammaried musing madames, fearful frenzied firsttimers, storklike stockbrokers, hasheesh-hawkers, havana-handlers, hideous hooligans, hawk-nosed hidalgos, hoors in hammams, hookah-hankering hookers, hustlers, hempclad whores, hacks, henchmen, handymen, hagglers, hecklers, helpers, hinderers - all prance, in a trance, in ghoulish dance, with obscene stance, now out of step, now in again, drab dun colored doors open and shut, make swishing noises, moan and groan, till moonlight pecks its way through the windowscreens, drips down like a cold pale blue liquid, and congeals on the kabuki-contorted faces of orgasm-feigning women.