Here -
Where...loose coin is exchanged on blind side adult corners...
Where...sunny mornings and night time shadow move among rusting steel underpass..
Where...grey pictures are carelessly hidden in barbed wire hedge..
Where...slippery couples meet between sheets of harsh fabric..
Where...handshakes are never between strangers..
Where...crowds gather to pass time and silence..
Where...derelict woods shelter shrivelled worlds..
Where...fake grins act as currency..
Where...door step begging is hasty and mindless..
Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Steve Coel
