The decay of sunset in the fingerless hours...
Old smiles reflected in rust.
Pictures, grey with thought, are carelessly hidden in broken hedges.
and headless dolls and plastic tea sets where cider rules and private air smells bitter
and finally, ripped posters clashing with twisted empty doorways
behind splintered bar-room chatter.
The zipped up bottled highway spinning up into secret woodlands...above the disconnected barren city limit
Purple eyes glaze across the stubborn river
Cider bottle leather jackets stacked on wooden stalls
rushed bruises painted on [ all the ] wrong walls
the stumble gates along the rutted brick
From the broken bandstand to the burnt out bark, the crippled landscape is holding the sky in place
gritted rotten walls shake at the passing of invisible feet
Walking Notes
Steve Coel
Walking Notes
Steve Coel
Walking Notes
Steve Coel
An 11.59 Publication
