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
