The troops follow the digital thud
To enter the throbbing box
Thirsty boys and squaking girls
All teeth and tallons
Sway on stiletto scaffolding
Defying the cold in t-shirts hands in pockets
Youth has no concern for the weather

Streaming into a pulsing dark
Neon lazers cut asymmetrically illuminating
Gyrating, sweating dance floor faces,
Running mascara and drooling euphoric youngsters
Are having the time of their life
 
Ejected later in a spitball, a spewing, pissing mass
On the streets unsatisfied charged atoms collide
American tourists, Hens and suburban dwellers
Chanting anthems, grunting and getting
fingered against cold winter walls
the liquid is quick
 
Bloodshot glances caught in the wrong eyes
Will guarantee a street brawl
What the fuck are you looking at?
The menace of a taxi queue
 
Until it subsides and disbands
Only the street cleaner remains
Collecting their excretions, artifacts of this tribe
Empty cigarette packets, nagins, puke
Chip bags and yellow polystyrene burger boxes.