Epoch Times

Gerard Street, in Chinatown,
the scrappy outer wall
of the Exchange Bar
is covered in Mandarin fliers,
licks of white and blue paint,
stains of vinegar and tar.
In beaten crap-metal boxes
stacks of free newspapers,
Epoch Times spine out,
Business Gazette, full colour,
catalogues of shrimp soup,
property, jobs, cigarettes
of paper and ink for clubs,
strip clubs, massage parlours,
vice imported from Soho,
the news of the world,
a revolt of dashed symbols
that spreads across restaurants
and facades of offices.

There's trash on the ground,
fag-ends, exploded bangers
and bits of chewed fowl,
gum of brash Italian tourists,
the end of a panini
tossed in the gutter
by an oily suit and tie.
The bins are full of menus.
The alleyways are teeming.
Girls buy cheap jewelry:
"Good Luck", "Blessings".
For those coming in the gate
China is a thing to eat.
In a pagoda by the carpark
old men in football shirts
with wizened yellow faces
drink and play mahjong
with an audience of tourists
eating chow mein and Bigmacs.

Over the hum of air vents,
and the soft churn of sewers
you can hear the newspapers
going out of date.