Here -
Where...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare..
Where...fussy overcoats and woollen carpet shape grassy valley roadway..
Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..
Where...fallen brick slices postered railing..
Where...juiced radio plays out potent messages to scaffolded local trade..
Where...antique van apathy clings to melted future..
Where...layered sounds of gated dog and broken motor serenade gloomy high street..
Where...teenage anger lasts long into retirement..
Where...harmony is seen between broken shop trolley, mid-summer puffa jacket and cannabis vape..
Where...bottom shelf goods are swallowed by small pockets..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Steve Coel
