MicroFlashFiction - Short Stories and Experimental Narratives. '...my experimental approach to writing is suited to this medium...it's an odd kind of laughter sometimes...and it's always in the hidden places...(an ongoing series of) imaginative journeys into experimental fiction...' Writing Review, Q+A - 2024. Steve Coel
Here -
Where...youth stubble walk across butchered sleeping path..
Where...hills consume history and memory is wiped out by nature..
Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..
Where...slow of foot shadow wooden shovel..
Where...boasting is frowned upon..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
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
Rust on Cloth
( 2023 )
The Right Shadow
Grey, when you's staying at Clink Hotel. Black, when you returns home to no fixed address. Each casts the right shadow, makes you invisible. Makes you useful.
Rust on Cloth
You walks along striding lengths of vacant brick where even today you never sees new cars. And sliding pass pub windows that shield sun and rain and bad dreams you gets the full yeasty blast of damp cloth and old men sharing lies over warm beer and brown fingers.
Spare Change for Twisted Feet
People you wants, needs, is every time busy. Is why you's visiting Clink Hotel. Is truth.
Cracked Smile
Like two coins rubbed clear your cracked smile is a daily reminder of the last fight 30 years ago.
No Paths...
Here, where young people never return and there are no paths and old people stop to watch lost cars, is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
* A small but well attended mid-week spoken word event in Birmingham. Rust on Cloth came up in conversations. A reminder of previous Birmingham city centre MicroFlashFiction experiments and images from Tin Collector ( An 11.59 Publication) and Born in the Workhouse ( An 11.59 Publication )
Cardiff ( 2023 )
**
Etched into time
etched into St Augustine's headland stone
the daily ritual of dockland kerb
being painted by elderly welders.
**
Dead Air into Warm Harp
Since I bust my legs down The Works I's been spending my mornings blowing dead air into warm harp by Central Library. Bust me heart too truth be told. Lost everything now I has. Still; once I's got enough coin I go gets a mild and Clark's pie in The Vulcan and, more often than not, I ends up chatting to the old girls warming themselves up before they goes to work under the bridge by The Glastonbury. Clink Hotel cross the road tends to get noisy in the afternoon so I wanders back into town for a bit of a stretch and goes and cadges a cup of tea from Asteys before I heads back down Bute to the Sally for warm meal and early bunk. Really I doesn't have time to feel sad. Not me. Trick I finds is to forget past and stick to what I knows. Needs change of shoes mind. Probably find some come Sunday side of hostel door.
MicroFlashFiction
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...slim concrete staircases funnel nervous jealous glances..
Where...starched wrinkled skin sticks to stretched bone..
Where...young people die old..
Where...unopened door fades into peeling brick and small bottled yard..
Where...glum dance patters aggressively on fractured acre..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...barber shop windows reflect passing stooped daytime..
Where...cheap toys are solitary on garden wall and stolen trolley..
Where...lost faces merge with elderly condemned brick..
Where...suspicious tin badge statements are worn like dismissed broken attitude..
Where...wild animals pass through broken door work place..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
promise is a promise
today doorway long corridor
place used to be arcade not now
shops are long gone
roof caved in steel mesh windows
ripped out by scrappies
walls decorated courtesy
of local youth
no charge nice touch that
so you could say
it's quiet around this way
now there's nothing left to nick
council says places like this
is going to be developed we'll see
meantime it's where I comes
to spend my days
to finish jobs
I been doing during the night
I'll have finished in about
six months anyways
do what the fuck they wants then
all of them
and if they ever finds out
what I been hiding round here
won't be any comeback
promise is a promise
* Originally published: Tin Collector, 2015. An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...hammered workplace shoulders scratch tattoo vein..
Where...elevated mirror views reach into roped water..
Where...rapid stone road footstep signals are passed among rivals..
Where...casual shop window seats remain chained to suspicion and small debt..
Where...old newspapers stay untouched..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...recycled gloves spill glassed ale in corner seat of damp pop-up..
Where...grey cigarette stained trackies stand broken in cement bank shelter..
Where...midnight football is supported by passing runaways heading to early morning meal..
Where...cupped smoke and industrial strength poison cans work full-time to keep the cold out..
Where...sharp light slices into puddled indoor short-cut..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Recent MicroFlashFiction Stories
from
An 11.59 Publication
[ Enquiries - Steve Coel: Ingot Studios, Birmingham ]
***
Chewed up...Walled in Wasteland...Broken Light...Secret Keys...Push Chair...Welded Arm...Small Fish...Glass Light...Evenings Shadow...Plastic Shoes...Lost String...Tacky Metal...Dull Flowers...Sleeping Path...Dark Glass...Oiled Doorstep...Fuzzy Pictures...Passing Rumours...Rings on her fingers...Smells of Time...Local Trade...Small Pockets...Whistled Anger...Empty Chair...Half Stolen Buildings...Up at the Knock...The Right Shadow...Write with your Ears...Thin Whistle at Dawn...Prison Ship...Heathland Water...Early Shift...Empty Corners...Dead Trees...Small Country...Bitter Fingers...A Tram - to Nowhere...Robert Johnson: 1911 - 1938...Shopping Trolley...Heavy Locks...Sarn Elen...Arglwyddes y Lon...Solo Rooms...Fuzzy Pictures #2...Deaf Ears: Part 1 - 4...Fallen Brick...Today Not Tomorrow...Steel Mesh.
Illustrations / Images: Documentary Fiction Photography - An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...shaded front windows blank out screamed memory..
Where...watered gravel road hides handshake meeting..
Where...cheap endeavour is forced..
Where...emotion is mid-air and blank eyed..
Where...coat collar romance is early evening and drunk..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...flakey water and chipped clog merge into whispered avenues of nervous laughter..
Where...wrinkled hands, that snap splintered cotton sleeves, grip trolley and last nights hiding place..
Where...free newspapers haunt forgotten cold meals outside cracked broken shops..
Where...ringed fingers shadow lager bottle and small, tight fisted girlfriend..
Where...cheap vinyl mattress' sell dreamless arrival and soulless departure..
is the place language comes to die.
[ For Alan and Charlie ]
Here -
Where...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare..
Where...fussy overcoats and woolen carpet shape grassed up valley roadway..
Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..
Where...fallen brick slices postered railing..
Where...bottom shelf goods are swallowed by small pockets..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...loyalty is sought and funded through dark glass..
Where...anger is buttery..
Where...doorstep begging is hasty and youthful..
Where...brave words are thrown away with cheap lager and soapy gritted water..
Where...curled up broken yard hideaways become legend..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...layered sounds of gated dog and broken motor serenade gloomy high street..
Where...cheap toys are solitary on pavement and stolen trolley..
Where...flagless memory walks sullen and dead down late night dual carriageway tunnel..
Where...simple slogans are stamped hard on tourist lamp post..
Where...lost faces merge with elderly condemned brick..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...early sandal foot death lays down grass foundation..
Where...shallow drunk opinion dominates afternoon decision making..
Where...teenage defence is held tightly to deaf ear..
Where...clumsy stapled barriers warn away passing neighbourhood shadows..
Where...off grid roads disappear through unpleasant fields of illegal chambered stubble..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...sad walled archive crowds day time sky..
Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..
Where...anonymous kiosk cards are pierced carefully on stolen rusty spike rods..
Where...blistered nickel punches into broken fence..
is the place language comes to die.
Here-
Where...the slow brickwork slivers of expectation collide with motored demolition..
Where...routine is never obvious..
Where...fuzzy pictures reveal short hard lives scratched on to broken dockside and burnt timber..
Where...homes are splashed across derelict tired hillside..
Where...debt plagues argument like two coins rubbed clear..
is the place language comes to die.
Here-
Where...plastic fairground jewelery lies chewed up..
Where...kerbstone wheels dawdle in tune with open door security..
Where...words spoken in jest between strangers are echoes of threat to local trade..
Where...shuttered motor industry is impatient and bolted into the fabric of labour..
Where...failure becomes a habit..
is the place language comes to die.
* Previously published: Chewed Up - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...cheap tables split abandoned doorways..
Where...cliff edge bramble holds litter to ransom..
Where...puzzled footstep is matched with clumsy frail voice..
Where...second hand clipped fashion rails spill strong alcohol and stained toxic mist..
Where...beauty is hooded..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...small feet climb cob-web steel tree and pram wheels fall into strutted path..
Where...slippery eyes fix on glassy oil pavement..
Where...shredded cliff top grass twists halted message..
Where...bitter, blameless minds enter watered down invisible strips of shadow..
Where...dead fruit is picked clean by unseen nightlife..
is the place language comes to die.
Heavy Locks
Quarrels echo across the yard toward a large watery gate. Grey
figures turn hiding their hands and run as animals scatter
with the wind. Down the hill
women gather and men glare from behind vast whiskers.
In photographs of heavy locks, decisions are fastened
from the outside.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
* Previously published: Kildas Song, Feb.2017 An 11.59 Publication
Like a dream it was just now. You barefoot and unconcerned across this wet road, it being early morning and all. I'm guessing here but you must have started the evening with shoes. Anyway, there you go. No CCTV following you, not round here, not yet. But you're being watched my friend, trust me, you're being watched. Yes it's quiet around here.Well apart from the water pouring from this broken guttering and occasional gun fire. Odd that. Guns usually start later, at a more sociable hour. No point this time of day. No-one to frighten really. So this time of day is just showing off.
So what the fuck's you doing round here? Is beyond me. Thing is though I'm not being paid to worry about stupid little fucks like you am I ? So, better get on then. Now, I'll just get this knife in a bit further and I'll be on my own way as well.
Shit. Was that gunfire again?
* Previously published: Tin Collector - Selected MicroFlashFiction, 2015. An 11.59 Publication
Robert Johnson, 1911 - 1938
In the tumble down wooden wide spot Robert sits crumpled with a 12 fret guitar on his knee as slowly he begins to play to the expectant faces in the crowd.
He returns their stares and begins to weave his spells.
He sings of lost love and slavery and distant waters. Finally, he twists the last notes towards the wet earth and finishes. The faces stop staring. People smile and thank him.
Robert returns to his thoughts and cigarette and once more listens to the distant voice tempting him to play God.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
* Previously published: UnEven Journey - April, 1993. An 11.59 Publication
** Previously recorded: Two Voices E.P. - 1998. An 11.59 Publication
Requested - from 1986 -87
...the bird darted from the sky, landed on top of his head digging its claws firmly into his skull and pecking at his eyes. After a few minutes nothing was left except torso and legs...' wake up mate, everybody out here!'...far below he could see the crowds watching expectantly. Waiting for him to fall.
...the snow was beginning to bother him, the cold didn't...Angels wings lay rotting under empty hi-rise tower blocks, rusting cars littered cracked side-walks, rain was falling...The sky crumbled, something was moving through a pile of discarded shop trolleys, loud music...
...the sound of a tram screeching to a sudden halt brought him back to his shaken senses...
Note: All my creative work during this period, both image making and writing, was very experimental.
Thanks for the request.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...bitter fingers rub endlessly into painted brick..
Where...teenage anger lasts long into retirement..
Where...happiness is solitary, forgotten and distant..
Where...closed shops remain open..
Where...failure becomes a habit..
Where...values are challenged and always disputed..
Where...machine winnings replace job prospects..
Where...harmony is seen between broken shop trolley, mid-summer puffa jacket and cannabis vape..
Where...Sunday morning dead mans clutter waits for eager hands..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Me? I like to walk.
I like listening to places - Steve Coel
( Interview: American Audio Prose Library, Columbia, Missouri )
Waving goodbye to the good times.
...she noticed the writing when quickly dropping from view to hide from her minder. He was still busy looking for her and she didn't fancy getting beat up again so soon after the last time. Evil man, evil temper, bad habits. But not even street minders come in this place. Not here. And owner, seeing it all, just simply placed drink on table and went outside for a couple of minutes to have a quiet word. She noticed them shaking hands. Clearly having reached some agreement.
...tonight, looking out on to the empty street she looked once more at the writing by the door. Strong words, written in her own language.
Small Country, from Tin Collector - Microflashfictions, 2015
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...carriageway kinks line metal assault on painted banks and melted slices of stairway rug fold into careless shoe..
Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..
Where...damp cloth pulled tight obscures fading gossip..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...crowds gather to pass time with silence and bleak splintered openings face corrupted wire rubble..
Where...stoney-engined vehicle bruises centre lane grass and fallen dead leaf trees gather along stolen factory wall..
Where...broken machinery sits proudly inside dusty windowed derelict shelters and shredded cliff top grass twists halted message..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Stepping away from the street and through a broken open two door, customers painfully walk into a high congregation of brown paper and leather. Along each damp tired wall, anointed paint quietly peels and unclean fragile carpet, frayed by disappointment, falls into hooded empty corners stacked high with rotting chairs.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Today the dry docks glimmer with salty channel rain, as woollen old men sit on one of their favourite benches to listen to the day go by. Each has a private smile as together they share the remembered songs and toughened laughter of the young hard welders they all once were.
And today as usual, visitors to the dock will be glancing at walls of dismal grey photographs. Some photographs show weary men and women waving half empty beer glasses in the air. Others are of car empty streets clogged with leather boots being dragged to early shifts. And some are of boys playing scrappy football with tight balls of Western and Echo in muddy parks bordered with adverts for cheap beer and bread.
And tomorrow? The old woollen men will return and listen to the dry docks all over again as departing visitors will once more fail to see them.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...small talk clouds swiftly dug passages to the next world..
Where...fractured gang lines decide night time movement..
Where...the slow of foot shadow wooden shovel..
Where...the painted steps, that divide day, disappear like the canal bridge into glassy undergrowth..
Where...glances do not go unnoticed and powerful voices weaken after each glass..
Where...sunny morning and night time star move along rusting underpass..
Where...oily shapes are squandered along collapsed kerbside shop front..
Where...twisted paths sheepishly carve a route across knocked out grass and broken bale..
Where...weather growls at footsteps and distant noise is ancient and honest..
Where...cracked window wired doorways smell of cheap red wine and restless sleep..
Where...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare..
Where...dreams begin and life ends..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...clipped metal drunken cans clutter the broken citadel at the head of illegal van garaged highways..
Where...coffee blasts from shattered arch vaped chatter..
Where...youth stubble stride across sleeping butchered road..
Where...loose coin is exchanged on the blind side of the adult corner..
Where...small feet climb cob-web steel tree and second hand pram wheels fall into strutted cobble..
Where...locked doors open to sharp knocking..
Where...chapel neat red velvet seats line walls of rooms that glow with stories of hill and tractor, long tipping nights, and arguments lost to hated officials..
Where...memories are painful and lonely deaths from Woodbine and Senior Service are still talked about in public houses..
Where...boasting is frowned upon..
Where...whispers are heathen across bleak land and words are spoken loudly by clear eyed distant people..
Where...clotted shoes clamber over torn stile, delayed stone and heathland water..
is the place language comes to die.
Heathland Water
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here, where young people never return and there are no paths, is where language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Silence crashes into untouched chip paper as power pulls gutted interest from unwilling hands.
For Andy Smith and Lee
Falmouth, 2023
Mystery man, shadow man is what they used to call him. Him when he was the latest three day thin whistle at dawn millionaire returning from sea to die like his father. Shallower sea back then, better cut cloth, broader smiles. Now though, after too many rope marks and twisted bone, life comes mixed to stillness with drink, sharp curses and dark corners.
Newlyn / Grimsby, 2023
Last night in the pub I was sat opposite a very elderly couple. A gentleman, was recalling story after story to a rather mystified and confused looking lady. He told her, over several shared bottles of Newcastle Brown, about his father and the various attitudes he had held towards work following WW1. He was, I have to say, a very good storyteller.
So...30 years previously in Brixton, London, I'd had a conversation, in a pub, with an elderly lady who told me she had been born in a brothel in France during WW1 and was still wearing her mother's fur coat from that time, that very evening. And 10 years before that, I'd got drinking and chatting in a pub, to an elderly father and son. The father telling us both all about his experiences as a boy soldier in the Boer War in 1900.
It seems clear to me now, as a writer of MicroFlashFiction, that source material has a tendency to shift with the times.
'Write with your Ears', An 11.59 Publication
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Daytime Hideaways
Between rubble and broken glass, in backspaces unseen from roads and rear view mirrors, shaking hands are being shaken. Here tracksuits are worn to hide shape, weapons and sex, and trade, like this space, is invisible and unknown.
The Right Shadow
Grey, when you's staying at Clink Hotel. Black, when you returns home to no fixed address. Each casts the right shadow, makes you invisible. Makes you useful.
The Mercy Path
Once you bypass the last starched lightning tree you enter a hillside world of midnight stream and border wire music. Here across shilling debris, early shadow and blisters of high mist, nature composes movement from iron and broken bone.
The Proposal
Cut into bitter grey stone by masters of dead trades, is your life story. Brief, like you, words torn from broken parents target the elders who created your passing.
No Paths
Here, where young people never return and there are no paths, is the place language goes to die and old people stop to watch lost cars drive pass.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
You's always in the hidden places; sometimes seen walking along the cold suede banks into the windowless tin roof shacks that are haunted by the black hair of the missing, and sometimes seen down the tight velvet lanes where the wild horses run and beer is drunk and apples still grow in secret orchards.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
In a regulation daytime armour that's still cracking with the coarse whispers of yesterday's broken promise, young women push vape shadowed baby carriers past boarded up shop windows. Their world is the local high street, where each day a bitter grey tide shambles downhill towards abandoned blue churches and disappearing city light. And it is here plastic shoes will slap into one off needles that litter paper gutters and where, even on dry days, the pavement is damp.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
The Workplace
Steve Coel
Late for work
MicroFlashFiction
Have a creative National Flash Fiction Day
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
*
Where...rough steps are will be taken to re-shape a brutalised blinkered existence. Probably.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
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.
Here -
Where...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare..
Where...fussy overcoats and woollen carpet shape valley roadway..
Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..
Where...fallen bricks slice postered railing..
Where...juiced radio plays out potent messages to scaffolded local trade..
is the place language comes to die.
In you comes -
in your sad seven year old ironic tracksuit and pair of box fresh.
In you comes -
looking for deals on the board behind the counter.
In you comes -
doing quick sums and ordering a dozen shots with your release money which you quickly shares out to punters who aren't interested.
In you comes -
barely missed and completely blitzed, just another forgotten madman.
In you comes -
a madman bent by routine
a madman twisted by addiction
a madman caught in the to and fro of the outside which has turned its back and good riddance.
In you comes -
smelling of time.
And so it starts..
Two chases. At the same time..
Words spoken out of turn. Causes offence..
Everyone's seeing signs that aren't really there..
First kiss of the day..
Protection. Hiding away is not an option..
Sitting next to the fire escape door facing the entrance..
Threats; the bad kind..
More to follow. Lots more..
The fight..
Looking the other way..
The arrests..
Bad debt, bad deals..
The rumours..
The quiet word..
Secret meetings..
A major disagreement..
Bloody hands and tip offs..
A one night stand..
Random warnings..
Scratches on working cars..
A public celebration.
Welded Arm
Here -
Where...hollow buildings shadow painted moment..
Where...dull flowers pilfer hedgerow litter..
Where...warehouse beams trap steel smile and welded arm..
Where...daily trauma functions alongside passing rumour..
Where...lost faces merge with condemned brick..
is the place language comes to die.
Small Fish
Here -
Where...gilded bark sinks wild animal muddied path..
Where...small fish paper local canal..
Where...plastic scaffolding is blown from derelict shelter..
Where...threatened glance reveals suspicion of the new..
Where...bad health is assumed..
is the place language comes to die.
Glass Light
Here -
Where...anonymous hands trade new and old signatures..
Where...construction is blind..
Where...feeling twists bitter movement..
Where...reflected glass light signposts narrow lane..
Where...knuckled welcomes operate..
is the place language comes to die.
Evenings Shadow
Here -
Where...narrow lane adventures are captured in muddy headlight and cry of tortured bird..
Where...broken lives are inherited..
Where...evenings shadow lies distressed on ripped rock and moss border..
Where...isolated youth walk through decades of frosted vision..
Where...small trees blanket fallen brick..
is the place language comes to die.
Tacky Metal
Here -
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 spike rod..
Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded sprayed walls of distant commerce..
Where...skin is scissored..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
From Deaf Ear - MicroFlashFiction: A Compilation, An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...the slow brickwork slivers of expectation collide with motored demolition..
Where...routine is never obvious..
Where...fuzzy pictures reveal short hard lives scratched on to broken dockside and burnt timber..
Where...homes are splashed across derelict tired hillside..
Where...debt plagues argument like two coins rubbed clear..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...locked doors open to sharp knocking..
Where...clotted shoes clamber over torn stile, delayed stone wall and heathland water..
Where...fractured ganglines decide night-time movement..
Where...ribboned plastic roof top windows glisten on oiled doorstep..
Where...seagulls congregate to share daytime information..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...eyes glare blankly at half empty cups on scratched table tops..
Where...mobile notes are glued to pavements damp with summer..
Where...loyalty is sought and funded through dark glass..
Where...faded pictures dent curved sky-line..
Where...young people die old..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...youth stubble walk across butchered sleeping path..
Where...hills consume history and memory is wiped out by nature..
Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..
Where...slow of foot shadow wooden shovel..
Where...boasting is frowned upon..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
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..
is the place language comes to die.
( Previously published: Stretched Bone#4, 2-10-22 )
Here -
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 spike rod..
Where...skin is scissored..
Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded, sprayed walls of distant commerce..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
( Formerly published: Stretched Bone#4, 2-10-22 )
Extracts...
In your spring hat, tied with lost string, you're searching the free paper for clues to which day you now find yourself waiting. And, as you well know by now, waiting on this particular corner beat today in the rain for the next delivery is always going to get you plenty of disturbed glances from local windows and trolley men...The steady clump of your drunk wet shoe against the cracked kerbstone shadows the high street, which is still roaring with anger over closure and debt and is also where even the most fucked up has memories when called upon or paid for.
So; you've been shadow hunting. Fucker. Isn't nice. And it sure doesn't look as if it is going to end well either, because people have already got their mobiles out and others are instinctively putting their hands over stash's and stolen wallets...From one of the stickered shop windows a tidy looking woman is shaking her head at the nasty row growing on the pavement outside. It was always about dodgy deals and money owed. Always. And always the same exhausted faces...The sound of blues fast approaching up the street usually moved on most as CCTV's are already being clicked off, wiped or removed.
And all the time is snatch's of stoned smiles floating through smoked windows of passing stolen number plates. Everyone knows the street cliches and seems to love them around here. And not ironically, ironically.
( Previously -Extracts from Yesterdays Broken Promise, 2022 )
In their regulation daytime armour that still cracks with the coarse bedroom whisper of yesterdays broken promise, young women push vape shadowed baby carriers pass boarded up pub windows. The world is the local high street, where each day a bitter grey tide shambles downhill towards abandoned blue churches and disappearing city light. And it is here their plastic shoes slap into one off needles that litter paper gutters and where, even on dry days, the pavements are damp.
Here -
Where...narrow lane adventures are captured in muddy headlight and the cry of tortured bird..
Where...burdened broken lives are inherited..
Where...evenings shadow lies distressed on ripped rock and moss border..
Where...isolated youth walk through decades of frosted vision..
Where...small trees blanket fallen brick..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Small Fish
Here -
Where...gilded bark sinks wild animal muddied path..
Where...small fish paper local canal...
Where...plastic scaffolding is blown from derelict shelter..
Where...threatened glance reveals suspicion of the new..
Where...bad health is assumed..
is the place language comes to die.
Glass Light
Here -
Where...anonymous hands trade new and old signatures...
Where...construction is blind..
Where...feeling twists bitter movement..
Where...reflected glass light signposts narrow lane..
Where...knuckled welcomes operate..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
