Industrial Park

by Aidan Andrew Dun


Hypnotic reflections
from glass cliffs
confuse the one
who enters this Gobi
anonymous desert
crawling with demons
animals from bad dreams
sliding about.

Look, a snake
of at least six storeys
resembles a grey wall
flexing scales;
lost in its coils
away from the sun
you smell the beast
with diesel-breath.

Serpent, fire-extinguisher
red, stone-eyed
yours are the
roundabouts, hissing evil
the buildings in dark
glasses whispering lies
along these avenues
of a doomed garden.

Anything ambulatory
is condemned.
In these dunes where
everything is identical
grains of sand and
particulates flying
strike against
unblinking lidless eyes.

This god still flicks
a forked tongue
in your face lined
as a crumpled map.
The dazzling sun of
the businessmen
makes no sense
to the living.