Here -
Where...boasting is frowned upon..
Where...youth stubble walk across butchered sleeping path..
Where...the slow of foot shadow wooden shovel..
Where...hills consume history and memory is wiped out by nature..
Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..
Where...eyes glare blankly at half empty cups settled on scratched table tops..
Where...steep dark pictures dent curved sky-line..
Where...mobile notes are glued to pavements damp with summer..
Where...young people die old..
Where...loyalty is sought and funded through dark glass..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Steve Coel
