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
