Benjamin Posted February 12, 2011 Share Posted February 12, 2011 (edited) Here is no myth, no anvil for an ancient limping god: but night teemed slag that splits the air in two. Vivid bursts of orange fire paint the base of moontopped clouds then dwindle slowly as each stroke is pacified. And flakes of sparkling graphite waft through galleries of eerie mills; fall constantly, past arcs of cruel halogen light. A boom and roar of background noise prevails and stale coke gases climb the twisted air. Gondolas in the rooftop move. Rumbling overhead cranes that rattle and shake the steel-clad heights, as metric ladles with their liquid tonnes of steel roll by. Figures of men, fiendishly dressed, work on around the clock and curse each day with fine gray dust, that falls on every thing. And in the frantic town their inept siblings move. Unsmiling people pinched of face, who scurry about their busy ways. Young and old, all old under the skin. Hooded jeans clad figures, jostle through the crowds; ubiquitous cell phones cupped to ears and eye-contact, at all cost is avoided. Take-aways and kebab houses of burgeoning nationalities ply their aromatic wares among the pub-infested streets, and music pounds from passing open windowed cars. Refuse disposal trucks repeat their endless task of beeping in reverse.They validate a claim of immortality by tilting loads that laugh up at the gods, then shrink-back to a frame be-fitting of this modern age, and fine grey dust now falls from every thing. Edited February 14, 2011 by Benjamin Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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