Dead Trees

Here -

Where...carriageway kinks line a metal assault on painted bank..

Where...melted slice of stairway rug folds into careless shoe..

Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..

Where...damp cloth pulled tight obscures fading gossip..

Where...crowds gather to pass time and silence..

is the place language comes to die.

Here -

Where...bleak splintered openings face corrupt wired rubble..

Where...stoney engined vehicle bruises centre lane grass..

Where...fallen dead trees gather along stolen factory wall..

Where...broken machinery sits proudly inside dusty windowed derelict shelter..

Where...shredded cliff top grass twists halted message..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel

Bone House Blues

Here -

Where...the living room covered with pictures, masks the door to the cellar and hell..

Where...crunching sound twists all boundaries as it bleeds slowly up through the floor boards..

Where...books littered with thought lie scattered on shredded carpet as oil stains paper and cloth..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel

Cold Meal

Here -

Where...rain drills fluent bitter nightmare into supple iron smile..

Where...tree top dead whispers flap on barbed wire peat field..

Where...thick water sucks daydream along high walled nostalgia..

Where...free newspapers haunt forgotten cold meals outside cracked broken shops..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel