The spinning jenny. A thousand unclimbed chimneys but the soot lay heavy on his half starved frame, and the woman,a name he could not pronounce waited in the darkened street to pounce upon unwary boys and men, and then the clinging of the silt at low tide on the Thames, where the lens of greedy eyes would spy out,hear the cry out of the mudlarks but no larking there. The gears that grind and inner wheels that wind. Northern towns do not exist theyre just a story that persists in our collective memory, a nightmare that we waken from. These mill town dressing gown like nursery rhymes designed to make us think we live in better times, wrapped us up in cotton wool. Until we were just as full of fear and fantasy as our collective memory. Industrialisation was the sow that suckled pigs, look at them now, Swines dont talk to me of better times dont talk to me at all.
Posted on: Mon, 01 Dec 2014 00:36:05 +0000
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