A Quick Trip to the Scrapyard

This is the home of metal undertaking,
the lair of brave, grave robbers,
where the ground bleaches black
with oil and gasoline.
The Earth would burn in carelessness,
an ammunition dump with warnings.

In the calm and warm hut, backed up,
sit the five, the crew of nightjammers,
metal men to feed the Iron Man,
in the shade of bled erotica,
a gentle girl, a window on the world
of lighter things and brighter eyes.

In a cartoon, they walk a line of steel,
suspended in the sky, a craned beam,
between the dead car towers,
the blue-sky scrapers and the dead.
And any edge here could kill me,
one scratch would bleed me empty.

It is my favour to these men, that
my request goes unfulfilled
and I leave cheerily with thanks
for nothing found save promises.
The sky lifts on this unreality
and I am glad I saw this world.