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.