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
