'They come by night, cruising in their uniforms and their
dances down the damp city streets, swinging along like mad
weekend lovers to the stereo sound of liberation.

They come as witness, spectators and participators,
crazy, wild and drunk on love and noise.

The speakers explode and we are blinded by
a wall of sound, screams, beats.

The movement flows through the room as
the band is on fire, flying across the stage.
Naive, beautiful, yet serious and scarred.

The skinny, feminine looking singer touches his lips
in a signal and gesture of communication and revolt.

The beat hypnotises as the heat is fel through the
room and we all take part knowing that revolution
never felt more alive.

The smell of perspiration and perfume is
flowing through the air as we hold each other
tight, moving along to the manifesto.

This could be the shape of punk to come,
liberation theology in practise, togetherness
spitting the dividers and rulers, the sum of
out parts forming that gag in the mouth that
voices the status quo, woven into fabric with
every last thread of our defiance, sewn to fit
like the shirt on my back.

Or it could be just another sleepless
midnight punk romance.'