promise is a promise

promise is a promise

Steve Coel

1
today
doorway
long corridor.
2
place used to be arcade.
not now.
shop's long gone
roofs caved in see,
and steel mesh windows
all been ripped out
by scrappies.
walls still decorated
each week though,
courtesy of local youth.
no charge.
3
nice touch that.
4
so you could say
is quiet round this way
now there's nothing
left to nick.
5
council keeps saying
places like this
is going to be developed.
we'll see.
6
meantime,
is where i comes
to spend my days.
finish jobs i's
been doing
during the night.
7
i'll have finished
in about six months
anyways.
8
do what the fucks
they like then.
all of them.
9
and if they ever
ever finds 
what i's been hiding
round here,
won't be any
comeback.
10
promise is a promise.

Microflashfiction

Steve Coel

An 11.59 Publication

Frayed Trousers

Frayed Trousers

Steve Coel

I guess it was always going to be 
the cheap brass rings on his fingers.
Not his dirty brown car coat or
that appalling smile of his,
just before he'd lose it.
Neither was it his cheap shoes, 
shoes he frankly liked a lot,
or indeed, his often too long 
frayed trousers.
These just seemed to go unnoticed
apparently.
Strange that.
No, it was the cheap brass rings
on his fingers that gave him away.

So, scam is what he would call it.
Is all.
People watches too much TV see.
All it ever was is few backhanders,
couple of brief, violent meetings 
and the usual in sealed envelopes.
Didn't hurt anyone, well,
least anyone you cares about.
Well, did he?

Microflashfiction

Steve Coel

An 11.59 Publication

Rains on me

heb deitl

Born in the Workhouse

Steve Coel

heb deitl

Born in the Workhouse

Steve Coel

Junkyard shopping.
Dockyard visits.
Goodbyes to departing lovers.
Addiction of poverty.
Motorway shoes.

Rains on me.

Steve Coel

Innocence doesn't exist here,

not even for the young.

And only dead eyes 
stare from photographs

taken on cheap cameras 
by drunk uncles.

Microflashfiction

Steve Coel

An 11.59 Publication

Backspaces

heb deitl

Born in the Workhouse

Steve Coel

heb deitl

Born in the Workhouse

Steve Coel

 

Steve Coel

So many daytime hideaways

are in backspaces,

unseen from roads

and rear view mirrors.

Here, feral torn shoes 

will again be shredded 

by rubble and broken glass,

as shaking hands 

are being shaken

between tracksuits 

worn to hide 

shape, weapons and sex.

You will return again tomorrow

because here real trade 

is invisible,

unknown.

Microflashfiction

Steve Coel

An 11.59 Publication

Welcome Back [ Customs House ]

arbrofion gweledol / lliw

Born in the Workhouse

Steve Coel

arbrofion gweledol / lliw

Born in the Workhouse

Steve Coel

Welcome Back [ Customs House ]

Steve Coel

Standing
in the doorway to the Custom House
you;
silently mouth a plea for small change.
Not a regular spot.
Not today.
Your recent close shave, is disappearing
and your shoes, are too loose 
for comfort.
Waterside busy
you;
are not.
Slow...you are becoming invisible.

Eventually
you;
will disappear. Leaving
only a shadow
in each doorway of this street.

nodiadau.
The shadow of a man, each day up from the 
Sally down the docks.
Into town.
Stillness.
In the doors of the Western and Echo.

microflashfiction

Steve Coel

An 11.59 Publication

Born in the Workhouse - Steve Coel

arbrofion gweledol / lliw

Llandanwg, Gwynedd

Born in the Workhouse

Steve Coel

Ideas / Notes.
- crushed and crumpled, twisted by machine
  and dumped.

- too many drop dead eyes.

- cheap deals on cheap products.

microflashfiction

Steve Coel

An 11.59 Publication

Born in the Workhouse - Steve Coel

arbrofion gweledol / lliw

Llandanwg, Gwynedd

Born in the Workhouse

Steve Coel

Notes / Ideas.
- canvas shoes sweeping water into grateful holes.

- small dead brick buildings.

- cigarette packet trails among
  fallen leaves, kerbside plastic
  and empty cans.

microflashfiction

Steve Coel

An 11.59 Publication

Docks Museum [ Re-visited ]

arbrofion gweledol / lliw

Born in the Workhouse

Steve Coel

arbrofion gweledol / lliw

Born in the Workhouse

Steve Coel

*

Docks Museum

[ Revisited ]

Steve Coel

Heddiw
dry docks glisten
with salty channel rain
as woollen old men
sit on one of their
favourite benches.
Each is smiling
as together they remember
the songs and laughter
of young, hard welders.

Heddiw
visitors will glance
at walls
of dismal grey photographs.
Some show weary men
and women waving
small half empty
beer glasses
in the air.
Others are of
car empty streets
clogged with leather boots
being dragged
to early shifts.
And some
are of boys playing
scrappy football
with tight balls
of Western and Echo
in muddy parks
bordered with adverts
for cheap beer and bread.

Bob dydd
the old men
will return and sit
and see it all again.
The departing visitors
will not see them.

microflashfiction

Steve Coel

An 11.59 Publication