Our Own Sunset Strip

Indie Kids drift out from Saki Bar carried on a wave of their own pretention They maraud down the sunset strip we know simply as curry mile A thousand takeaway wrappers catch a thousand heated updrafts And drunken artists mix with switched on individuals Echoing chants originate from the top floor of Magic Buses And those with anything to hide find it thrust out in the open This country’s next golden generation huddle over piles of vomit As rain clouds threaten but recede and drift by Neon signs illuminate a thousand hopes and dreams As you board a 142 to Piccadilly Blushed cheeks hiding dreams of a quite temperate life A longing glance at the John Rylands goes unnoticed by all While the unmistakable stench of Sambuca clogs the air It’s the heavy breath of human sacrifice Factory bouncers crack knuckles in preparation for long overdue fights This is Manchester And this is Friday Night.

Charles Rawcliffe