Steve Coel - Tented Song

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Tented Song

Here -

Where...broken rhythms pulse out of boarded second hand door darkness..

Where...stolen boxed official paper deliveries lie forgotten behind metered indoor yard..

Where...beggared song is shuttled away from bagged evening collection..

Where...glass eyed conversation is embankment tented secret..

Where...newness is nailed down and closely observed..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel - Wired Beauty

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Wired Beauty

Here -

Where...drowned road happiness is traded for pennies..

Where...beauty is inked into loose skin..

Where...hostel dispute is shop door knuckled..

Where...salted air breathing is painful reminder of loss..

Where...wired thought becomes backroom industry..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel - Metal Carpet

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Metal Carpet

Here -

Where...knotted metal carpet rolls lean on concrete window salesroom..

Where...reflected sleep is caught shuffling across bridged river..

Where...drained smiles remain confused..

Where...doctored papers shield gridded nylon building..

Where...ordered talk is wooden..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel - Open Mic. June, 2025. Y Gogledd: #2

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Paper Bag

Here -

 

Where...banned entry is monitored by walled bored glass eye..

Where...cracked machine street furniture empties rigid oil onto skated shoe..

Where...paper bag eating is tin roof sheltered..

Where...curious hands grip tightly bridged water passage way..

Where...alarm bells herd crowds into uniformed wallets of silence..

is the place language comes to die.

Electric Hair

Here -

Where...tree scaffolding shields stained daytime drinking..

Where...coughed innocence is heavy in charity cotton shirt..

Where...electric hair passengers are stiff backed against fake safety exit..

Where...metalled corner stubs become local broken emblems..

Where...chested aggression clips rough handed into rum hinged crowd..

is the place language comes to die.

Glum Dance

Here -

Where...slim concrete staircase funnels nervous jealous glance..

Where...starched wrinkled skin sticks to stretched bone..

Where...young people die old..

Where...unopened door fades into peeling brick and small bottled back yard..

Where...glum dance patters on fractured acre..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel - Greedy Laughter

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Greedy Laughter

Here - 

Where...filmed movement is bound by derelict building and deadwood fire..

Where...sober silent conversations are concerned and paper free..

Where...official tattooed authority is broken by wired library bench seat..

Where...early evening heron fishing gets plastic bag poison water netted..

Where...greedy laughter clings to painted doorway shadow..

is the place language comes to die

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel - Open Mic. June, 2025. Y Gogledd

Steve Coel - Documentary Fiction Photography

Painted Hatred

Here -

Where...silence is timed..

Where...kerbside road walking is never local..

Where...car lights halt hooded debt collection..

Where...early morning cigarettes are gathered from canal path bin..

Where...painted hatred shows handcuffed hints of humour..

is the place language comes to die.

Sad Eyes

Here -

Where...crowded thoughts are positioned above empty guide dog begging..

Where...plastic bag clumsiness shelters fenced bus stop..

Where...shadow glassed laughter becomes bitter and sad-eyed..

Where...blistered wood holds signed memories of yesterdays bargains..

Where...puddle damp trainers split through confused traffic..

is the place language comes to die.

Metallic Stumble

Here -

Where...straight talking is a cold charmless metallic click..

Where...wind launched building demolition scratches neighbourhood itch..

Where...stickered light falls on damp nylon shoe..

Where...last nights takeaway guides corner walled stumble..

Where...gritted smoke sticks to dark glass passenger..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel/An 11.59 Publication