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Steve Coel
False Doors
Here -
Where...shop doors embrace the bubble gum smell of illegal cheap drink..
Where...curled up steel yard hideaways become legend..
Where...broken promises are public..
Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..
Where...aimless driving is deliberate..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel
Band Stand
Here -
Where...top floor swearing is frequent..
Where...poor disguises are deliberate..
Where...slippery couples meet between sheets of harsh fabric..
Where...derelict woods shelter shriveled worlds..
Where...doorstep begging is hasty and mindless..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel
Lon Ganol
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.
* * *
Note[s]:
* Previously i've been asked about humour in my narratives. Difficult question to answer really as it's sometimes just out of reach and occasionally even i don't recognise it when it occurs. Go figure.
* I have listened to other creators when they reflect that they are drawn to things, events, places that a lot of people often don't see. I like walking and looking but I also I like listening to places. So I guess both listening to and seeing places might begin to explain the driver for the MicroFlashFiction /experimental narratives here.
Steve Coel
