Dead Air into Warm Harp


Dead Air into Warm Harp
Steve Coel

Since I bust my legs down The Works
I's had to spend all my mornings
blowing dead air into warm harp
by the Central Library.
Bust my heart too, truth be known.
Lost everything now I has.
Still; once I's got enough coin
I has a mild and Clark's pie 
down The Vulcan. 
And; often or not, I ends up
talking to the old girls
warming themselves up,
before they goes and shelters
under the bridge by The Glastonbury.



Stryd Fawr / Stryd Uchel
Steve Coel

Clink Hotel across the road
gets noisy in the afternoon
so I wanders back into town
for a bit of a stretch and goes
cadge a cup of tea from Astey's
before heading back down Bute
to the Sally for warm meal
and early bunk.
Doesn't have time to feel sad really.
Not me.
Trick I finds, is to forget past
and just stick to what I knows.
Need change of shoes mind.
I'll find some in box
by side of door in morning.



Stryd Fawr / Stryd Uchel
Steve Coel


Born in the Workhouse
Steve Coel
An 11.59 Publication

Lighten Up



Taith Araf [ Braslun ]
Steve Coel


Lighten Up
Steve Coel
Mystery man, shadow man
is what they used to call him.
Him a thin whistle at dusk, 
the latest three day millionaire
returning from sea 
to die again
over and over.

Shallower sea back then too.
Better cut cloth
broader smiles.
Now; so many rope marks
and twisted bones on metal
have become mixed with drink,
drunk sharp curses and 
dark corners.

Born in The Workhouse
Steve Coel
An 11.59 Publication

Clifftop Walk



Cliff Top Walk [ Braslun ]
Steve Coel

Born in the Workhouse
Steve Coel

Photographs
torn,
show long dead 
faces,
long forgotten
dreams.
Clothes,
ragged with age
lie with shoes
shredded from play.
And young harsh eyes
glare suspiciously,
revealing dark rainy days
and long hot summers
all faded.

Born in the Workhouse
microflashfiction
Steve Coel
An 11.59 Publication

Rust on Cloth



Taith Araf [ 2013 ]
Steve Coel


Taith Araf [ 2013 ]
Steve Coel


Rust on Cloth
Steve Coel

You walks along striding 
lengths of vacant brick
where even today
you never sees new cars.

Sliding past dark pub windows 
that shield sun and rain 
and bad dreams,
you gets the full yeasty blast 
of damp cloth and old men
sharing stories,
over warm beer
and brown fingers.


Born in the Workhouse
microflashfiction
Steve Coel