Ghouls on parade.
dropping pills
to get their thrills.
Could be smarties or skittles,
the way they chow them down.
Snorting lines all over town.
white dust lining toilet cisterns,
like a blizzard drifting in.
Laughing gas should do the trick
12 pints of beer
in a river of sick.
These streets
every saturday night,
a few bevvies,
a kebab
and a fight.
The snarl
of wicked words
whips
through the wind,
in this living nightmare,
freakshow paradise.
Anyone got any skins?
The shrill voice sings.
Smashed glass smattering
the glinting paths.
A saturday night blood bath,
got to wash away those sins.
As already the fists
have started to swing.
Another round, it's all a swirl
the room starts to spin.
He noisily hurls,
chunks of carrot in a liquid broth.
Every saturday night
the streets ignite,
dancing feet
slip and slide,
on pools of sick,
too drunk to stand
and onto their arses
they heavily land.
Every saturday night.
The take-out is shite
as they crowd the "chicken" seller.
the pigeons discernibly
absent from the area.
Every Saturday night.
Accident and emergency
after club party time.
Giving the nurses hell,
this bloodied and beaten clientele.
Hooded gangs,
knives in hand,
and down the ward
the electronic beeps
rise then stop
for the very last time.
Thanks for reading
Please take a look at my new collection "Torn Pages"
100+ all new poems not shared here before.
https://tinyurl.com/KCtornpages
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