Tongue twists a grim night out

Songs of the underpass, sung in

a monotone on the mirror still canals

 

Those nights when life went out

For the give-us-a-chance young men

Into the darkness, the deep dark, we

venture, to find poets in verse and one

in song, of Irish childhood.

 

Monotone lives drip blue into the flaming

canal from collapsed chairs.

Sulky shadows lost in Lewis arcade where the prostitutes 

collect walking the night with thee

 

If they keep

building Stockport up like this

we are going to become a city.

 

Not on the menu trying to find

a space to write on

I follow the drift of Miles Davis trumpet

down a forgotten city tunnel

I'm going to spend a penny

 

She didn't want to do it

At the bus stop holding hands while it keeps

on - - - - Raining raining raining.