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.