A Kowloon Sea
In Liverpool, England, there is one street containing
all the Chinese restaurants, side to side, back to back
and stinking drain to sea.
where once a year, twirling dragons pierce the afternoon air,
passing old men with suits and moneyed-hands, their
young thugs standing close with tatooed skin.
the crowd, mostly mums and dads and tots in prams, heaves
like weed on a Kowloon sea...hungry for the firecracker
bangs and dim-sum smells and potted green tea.
this riot of shifting colour drags and pushes at the cobbled
road underfoot, as the dragon takes another bag of pak choy
greens placed ten foot high, while the lithe boys dressed in
kung fu black and draped with skill, reach up to pluck the
fiscal bunch and pass it down, hand to hand, out of sight,
to the flashing, bouncing jaws beneath
and soon the fire cracker thunder and emptied shops
call the street to book: and a carnage of paper to-go boxes
and spilt terror join with the bars' beery breath
saying...go home now Englishmen, you are not our brothers,
this is our place not yours..go home til next year
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