Here -
Where...carriageway kinks line metal assaults on painted bank..
Where...melted slices of stairway rug fold into careless shoe..
Where...half gloved fists 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...small engined vehicles bruise centre lane grass..
Where...fallen dead trees gather along stoney 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.
Here -
Where...ribboned plastic roof top windows glisten on oiled doorstep..
Where...cluttered ornaments stride down allotment fenced path..
Where...seagulls congregate to share daytime information..
Where...flakey water and chipped clog merge into whispered avenues of nervous laughter..
Where...booted thunder clatters into ticketed smokey backroom..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
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..
Where...wrinkled hands, that snap into cotton sleeve, grip trolley and last nights hiding place..
Where...bottom shelf wooden container envelops corner stone shop..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
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..
Where...angry shadows are nailed on to walled in wasteland..
Where...blistered streams fall into backyard carpet shed..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...derelict woods shelter shrivelled worlds..
Where...mudless lanes fracture industry and metal..
Where...tacky brass emblems cling to sprayed walls of distant commerce..
Where...slow brickwork slivers of expectation collide with motored demolition..
Where...yesterdays comical events sit buried in vintage blue cement dust..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...repaired jigsaw roads wait for seasonal pacing and frosty morning..
Where...thick suited men drink bottled park bench liquid breakfast..
Where...pavement paper is hidden behind spirals of broken bicycle..
Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
