The evening in a bee's stomach

I can still remember that wind's smell.
It had been stinky and a little bit warm,
like a rotten-air fragrance;
Well, I felt I was the only unknown
among strangers, like a little nuisance.
I still feel the breeze when I try to catch
a double-priced black cab
at the corner of Portland Street and Newton Street,
It was like my running anti-enlightenment.
Manchester could be your last squeamish,
and you can be its ordinary meat dish.
I wanted to reach our burrow in Didsbury
but did not have an idea how due to
I might have been a sloshed piggery.
Was I inside the cab? Did I get on it? 
Manchester's evenings could be
writhing on a second-hand plastic safety razor
with a removed comb-patterned protector.
Nobody knows how your night would have gone on;
and why your experiences could be
delightfully non-adequate.
You could have been stabbed, raped,
or accepted a blowjob offer from
an old rough sleeper for 5 pounds,
or ate out tricky-priced rubbish in chippies at 4 am,
or being robbed by a teenage gang,
or arrived home,
or call your partner,
and asked for evacuation.
There always were long queues 
in front of the bars, happily waiting for
one of these options. Shame renews,
and you skip between time fragments,
being fanatically onomatopoeic
with all words, you should not have thought.