Libya Poem by Antony Rowland

Economies brake on the crude prices,
the complicity of Libyan oil:
meet me at the reception of the water point,
the pump kid fuelled with Masarati dreams
where clouds form like afterthoughts above the logs,
coal and petroleum spirit. The office,
spick as a PIN, attends your balance and rewards.
Tubes anticipate the wireless pumps:
the nozzle pipe sucks air to a vacuum
before the clip click, fills with the corpses
of fossils compressed with mud and sun
then heated and cracked in refineries
to grades of kerosene and diesel pumped
for invisible trucks that fuel the night.