The whale teeth prison
bars of
upturned shopping
trolleys give way
to the clip art factory
rooves
of vandalised check-out
stations.
From somewhere within a
thicket
of fallen I-beams, voices beg for me
to take my items across
a shingle beach
of soggy cigarettes and
broken glass.
Cloudbursts bring a
liquid light
like gouts of mercurial
napalm
through holes made in
the ceiling
by some
tantrum-throwing god.
Shadow-snakes lurk in
gurgling freezers,
emerging only to crawl
amongst the
twisted roots of trees
slurping at
the edges of a broth of
rotting meat.
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