Costers; again

Ive ducked into costers; the bar that time forgot, not by choice, I had to get off the streets, this town is a weird and terrifying place this time of night. between the shops closing and the bars filling up the streets are empty, except for the scattering of theives, drunks and crazies all of them panicing because they have lost the crowd camouflage, walking round I feel like a lame gazelle in a pen of scared lions.

Looking round this place I can't belive I was part of this scene, it's all black band shirts and "contraversial" percings, they might as well walk round with sandwhich boards saying "I hate my dad". Nicknames fly past me like shrapnel "stoatie" "big chris" "yobber" it's like being on a fucking pirate ship. I'm getting the odd funny look partly because I'm sitting on my own scribbling in a note book, but mostly becuase im not in their individualist's uniform. Fuck em I was coming here when half these little rocktards were playing with stickle bricks and shitting in there underoos.

Everyone here is either much younger or much much older, my generation is absent, signifgant by our absence. Not surprisingly- we exploded in a cloud of drugs, self destructed with pills, speed and smack, the survivours moving on to differant clubs drugs and sub-cultures. The old haunts closed down or immpossible to go to because it feels like salt in the wounds when we think of our missing freinds, dead, mad or missing.

I recognise everyone here, of course they're not the same people just sub-cultural echos from the past, cookie cutter stereotypes and evidence, to me, that scenes dont mutate or cross- they develop like bacteria, splitting in two and absorbing the weak.