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PostPosted: Wed Nov 01, 2006 3:03 am
by K
A refinery skyline burns the stars, chars the welcome.

The dual carriageway hum, numbs us.

Aromas -

Fish and biscuits, biscuits and fish;

Rumble our guts.

To the left -

A dead Little Chef.

Happy face, grey with oil-matter

To the right –

Metal cardboard huts, long, un-foldable.

Industry lives, permeable, that leak into

Day-to-day and choke the weak throated

To death

I’m dead.


It rhymes with Vietnam.

Re: Immingham

PostPosted: Tue Sep 22, 2009 6:51 am
by martin shaw
Great stuff!! Very cynical, what more can I say. I seldom see stuff of this standard.