Here is a poem.
Imagine, if you will, a town.
This town has all the features a town should.
It has a town hall.
It has a shopping centre, with shops.
It has bars and
It has a clock in the middle of it.
It has a monument to those men and
women who served their country in the two World Wars.
It has brick buildings and sandstone buildings.
Old buildings built high and narrow, deep red.
It has churches.
It has new buildings, glass fronted and squat.
It has Saturday nights.
Imagine, if you will, a Saturday night.
This Saturday night has everything a Saturday night should.
Youths smashing glass bottles in a churchyard.
Girls screaming too loudly in a predominantly
quiet bar because they have tequila.
Men shouting at Match of the Day, silent on the TV,
too drunk to remember they already know the scores.
Young lads and lasses all dressed up,
outfits all modelled from the same three pages of Heat magazine.
An electric box ripped from the concrete,
wires strewn fizzing over the pavement.
Imagine, if you will, a Saturday night in this town.
The main strip is raw electric, unbound by wires,
charges marauding up and down the road.
There are groups outside every bar, smoking, laughing, shouting.
Just off the strip a bottle smashes against a gravestone.
Five people walk out of one bar in search of another.
Maybe they do not like the music.
The two men are in polo shirts and faded jeans.
The women in dresses just the wrong side of classically short.
A bottom is pinched. In a flash, one man is clutching his face, three claw marks arching from ear to mouth
and one woman is lay unconscious on the pavement.
There is a vibe in this town on this Saturday night. A spark in the air