Prepared Whispers

Here -

Where...wrinkled hands, that snap into splintered cotton sleeve, grip trolley and last nights hiding place..

Where...bottom shelf wooden container envelops corner stone shop..

Where...small rusty badges and yellowed brick are etched on pointed walking stick..

Where...fragmented sour heeled machinery lies idle..

Where...cloth eared movement is ghostly..

is the place language comes to die.

Here -

Where...angry shadows are nailed on to walled in wasteland..

Where...blistered streams fall into backyard carpet shed..

Where...derelict wood shelters shrivelled worlds..

Where...mudless lanes fracture industry and metal..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

Rescued Footprints - Extracts

Down double sided boarded up streets, torn cars are buttoned into fired up twisted spaces.

*

The music of early mornings and neighbourhood footstep is reflected in slow moving traffic that idles and stutters along the yawning High Street.

*

Bare armed and heavily booted, keyholders arrive in knots of secret glances and reluctant handshakes while patiently adopting the routine of shouldered good nature and long days of empty ambition.

Steve Coel

Dull Flowers

Here -

Where...ribboned plastic roof top windows glisten on oiled doorstep..

Where...cluttered twisted ornaments stride down allotment fenced path..

Where...seagulls congregate to share daytime information..

Where...silent voices speak empty values to woollen walls..

Where...small trees blanket fallen brick..

is the place language comes to die.

Here -

Where...flakey water and chipped clog merge into whispered avenues of nervous laughter..

Where...hollow buildings shadow painted monument..

Where...booted thunder clatters into ticketed smokey back room..

Where...eyes glare blankly at half empty cups settled on scratched table tops..

Where...tired sea-salt fairground shutters mutter spent messages to gloomy eyed visitor..

Where...dull flowers pilfer hedgerow litter..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel