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
