Hulks of heavy industry lay strewn around, primitive yet shot through with a cracked futurist vision. Red rusting mother loads could have lain there for years, a henge to post industrialism. Time to open the sluice gate and slide the fetid bulk into the bloated brine of the next high tide. Surfing out across the broth its bow breaks the water, sending a long lazy wave like treacle slapping the side of the wharf. Slaughter-phonic noises pulsate from within the lead encased carburettor. On the blistered deck great knotted balls of chain lie rusting for ever, atrophied by age and despair.