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