Here -
Where...dead service is given free to dole eyed vacant drifter..
Where...handshakes are never between strangers..
Where...routine is never obvious..
Where...aimless driving is deliberate..
Where...water disappears under sheets of broken undergrowth and unwanted letter box litter..
Where...fuzzy pictures reveal short hard lives scratched onto broken dockside and burnt timber..
Where...ringed fingers shadow lager bottle and small, tight fisted girlfriend..
Where...homes are littered across derelict, tired hillside..
Where...cheap vinyl mattress' sell dreamless arrival and soulless departure..
Where...cars are parked and forgotten..
Where...antique van apathy clings to melted future..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
