. Here is no myth, no anvil of some ancient limping god: Just night-teemed slag, that splits the air in two with bursts of orange fire; painting the base of moon topped cumuli, then dwindling, when each stroke is pacified. In ghostly galleries of eerie mills, the burnt coke gases climb through twisted air. And minute flakes of sparkling graphite, fall past halogen haloes of cruel light; merging with shades, of all who went before. The boom and roar of background noise prevails, as giants in the rooftops, shift and shake the pigeon riddled heights. Grumbling and rumbling with their liquid tonnes of ladled steel; that feed the fields of industry and Mars. Figures of men, fiendishly dressed, work on around the clock: they bless and curse each day with questions that will outlive all of them. Their educations-- lost anachronisms in fine grey dust that covers everything. And in the nearby town, dependent siblings strive for individuality. Scurry on about their worried ways: with talk of pensions and redundancies; till they all end up looking just the same. Young and old, all old under the skin... Ubiquitous cell phones cupped onto ears: Each needing to feel special in 'The Cloud'; 'E' cigarettes and 'drinks to go' in hand, while rummaging for strains of worthwhile work. Seductive fast-food fragrances release illusions: peddled on the wind, amongst the streets of dying pubs and shuttered shops. Loud music pounds from open windowed cars; while waste-disposal trucks beep through back lanes. Tilt up in exultation to the gods as though to worship immortality. Then.. shrink back flaccidly... Accept a lot, that's more consistent with the changing age.. In fine grey dust that covers everything.
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