Where...Sunday morning dead mans clutter waits for eager hands..
Where...open spaces become dog bound and burnt by fogged spite..
Where...anonymous kiosk cards are pierced carelessly on stolen spiked rod..
Where...skin is scissored..
Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded, sprayed walls of distant commerce..
Where...yesterdays comical events sit buried in vintage blue cement..
Where...blistered streams fall into backyard carpet shed..
Where...dull flowers pilfer hedgerow litter..
Where...stoney-engined vehicle bruises centre lane grass..
Where...weightless men saunter early into cotton hospital shroud.
Steve Coel
