A boy stands dutifully at his work, Flutt’ring fingers dance through the needles there, and takes a breath. His Watcher whips the boy’s back, the fact’ry stops to listen. Taken Control, has this horrid new Industry. A rushed touch, a floating hand to see far beyond the sparse brush set up below the quiv’ring landscape, now fearing a harsh jar to the nape of its defenseless, re-run of a preconceived needle track – so fast. So fast it jumps, leaps, from its vile perch to insert talons, cuffing unblessed arms to slav’ry, and its needle track. It hurts, punct’ring bulging resistant veins, like yarn they twist-twine around torn wrists, and so vast. So vast, these floating hands, use quills sprouting gangrene lies, with oil and sweat as ink, dip nibs in pockets of those unhearing; Five hundred milligrams of bitter pink; Those questions vanished fast, it truly works! but – it leaves, Blank. Too much grime and blood leaves windows smokèd, like brown-stone factories, shattered fingers, Left in weaving, crossing needles, pinning yarn to crossed flesh. Nail bed bit out by thread. Pre-bleached cloth hung by consumption, floating needle-track, scar-raising quills. Star-gazing Thinkers feel the deep-rooted bore, and the watchers of them stand flat and still, ripping men and women to shreds by insertion.
Needles stab at your finger tips while reading Isaac Dwyer’s realistic portrayal of life as a factory worker during the industrial revolution.