The old cinema's gone.  Now it’s cheap office space.

There are pound shops and pawn shops and shops just for vapes.

The church has locked doors and a yard full of ghosts

and looks on to a high rise, now derelict almost.

An army of old plastic is deployed on the ground

on the front line of Hades, marching around

next to fag ends, broken glass, needles, dog shit,

chip shop papers, bottles, vomit and spit.

There's a woman in flip flops though it’s bitter out there.

There's a lass with a babe in a cheap plastic chair.

There's a bloke in the bookies in deep concentration.

There's a nut singing songs for his king and his nation.

There's a dealer who’s been on the same patch for years.

There's a drunk in the precinct who lunges and leers.

There are dirty street kids who swear and are lewd.

There's a drink addled lady whose language is crude.

An accordion player sways outside the bank.

A scared skinhead lingers, all lumbering and lank.

A fragile girl watches, eyes sharp and defiant,

at war with her parents who are drug reliant.

The smart want to leave, try to get faraway,

leave behind the knife crime, the drugs, the decay.

But they get sucked back in, find it tough to break loose

from the despair and oppression, the cruelty and abuse.

And down it spirals, this maelstrom of hell.

It will suck you right in, and others as well.

It will spin you down into its black hole

and swallow your heart and spit out your soul.