Smells of Time - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

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.

Rings on her fingers... - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

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.

Passing Rumours: Welded Arm, Small Fish, Glass Light, Evenings Shadow, Tacky Metal

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

Fuzzy Pictures

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.

Oiled Doorstep

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.

Dark Glass - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

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.

Sleeping Path

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.

Dull Flowers - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

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 )

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...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 )