“It’s just like music when you reckon it up.” – Mark E Smith
M A N C H E S T E R
The deep-rooted and the new-fangle, side-by-side-separated by transport lines. The forgotten and the forgotten, the used and disused.
Victorian verve standing up to time – cemented in memories. Black boards blind the windows – who knows no future – waiting to die by the water. The haunted. The elongated chimney of industrial power choked to death by consequence.
In its day. In its day it walked – swaggered – spewing black smoke of wealth and power. An inoperable charm, a reflection on
A wall of glass. Another wall of glass – a deflection, misfit of Manchester. Longing to belong. Standing up stiff and tall, failing. Unmarked – no feeling. No history. People passively walk by – grand (but) not grandeur – simply another hotel.
The suit haunt. Dial 9 for reception. Join the corporate nomads – city break commuters – your own private room. Sip the city through a cocktail, a phenomenal view. Memories washed daily. Business cards, black books, shopping bags, meetings, pay-per-view. A sorry epitaph. Another.
Ian Curtis. Laurence Stephen Lowry. John Rylands. Anthony Wilson. Dr Henry Watson. Sir John William Alcock. Daniel Adamson. Frank Johnson. Robert Gretton. Sir Matt Busby. Maria Jasnorzewska. Billy Meredith. Henry Kelly.
L O N D O N
The lights scrape her eyes.
Someone smiles at her.
She smiles inside.
Taken away in different directions.
People passing through.
Wanting to stop.