I was lost in a junkyard
hoping to find a compass
somewhere in the mountain
of rusted metal things.
There were four living creatures
staring at me with their multitude of eyes,
all of them blood-shot
from sleepless eons.
They were standing around a filthy recliner
drinking malt-liquor and
howling at the moon
or a hubcap in the sky.
I asked them for directions
out of this horrifying place.
They did not answer.
They could not speak.
Their thousand eyelashes
beat the air like
the wings of a thousand bats,
blowing out the fires in the seven industrial drums
like candles on a birthday cake.
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