Archives for posts with tag: decline

Does anybody believe Stockport is a real place? Spoiler warning to outsiders: it’s not.

It’s an inside joke between true northerners, little more than a winking jibe at our past. As pretend as the mad hatter. 

It’s the haunted tale of a place hidden in smog, inhabited by wheezing ghouls and the restless spirits of the never-were.

A liminal town, cosy in its eternal withered state – somehow just as near its demise now as when the old mills first shut.

It’s the wistful return to policemen walking their beat and knowing your name. Of horse-drawn carriages and polite manners.

A paradox to be teased out if you would compile the urban myths. Somehow a love letter to both small talk gossip with strangers and the quaint knowing of everyone of everyone else. 

Stockport is the dream of cityfolk reeling from their busy lives, a fantasy concocted by the sick collective.

the eye sunken oaf lurches forward uncontrollably to stand
his craned neck strains under the weight of a thousand teeth
unsteady legs gasp for precious movement, rock and sway for a moment
before besponged feet slap slap the ground

was there ever an uglier creature?

his everwake hot breath snore more audible as his heart races
eyes avert the unnatural sun’s gaze, no, the gaze of all,
would look to his feet were it not for distended bowels

pale wretch
thin skinned balding child
must now fend for himself
– all rousing hunchbacks must –
the construct is broken, feeder tubes and screens all
hostile germ air will kill those most sterile

'Portrait', a painting by Myriam Cancho Urbina
Between the monstrous, grotesque and beautiful. Portrait #1, 2017 by Myriam Cancho Urbina

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