Industrial Park

by Aidan Andrew Dun

ip4


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.










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