The Master Baits

Observations during a Saturday night

a forestbather in ukraine
1 min readDec 7, 2021

Another bar closes for the night, the drunkards spill out into slimey streets. Whores swarm, ready with bated breath — from abated, slowed, stopped, dropped; to lie slathered in fried beer fat fumes, under cigarettes soaked in caveman dna. At the casino, mafia don wannabees, a last vestige of Thatcherism, ply their trade. And what is their trade? These suave weekenders trade in fists, in an effort to regain prowess lost at the roulette wheel. And why are they allowed out, from their gay-hating households for another night of male-prostitute shagging? Because many have been vaccinated, for the sole purpose of throwing up their kebabs at 2 am. And I, I am the city, home of the walking wounded, none of which will ever be awarded a purple heart. No. I dress in their stories, patterned and purple as night…

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