Experimental Short Fictions - Steve Coel. Text + Images - Curated by An 11.59 Publication, Birmingham
Escape Bags
Here -
Where...painted grief remains peeled along rubbished waterway..
Where...stabbed fist gestures halt illegal commerce..
Where...distorting voices emerge from collapsed shop door crowd..
Where...coin bagged exchange between enemies is shaped by secret patterned movement..
Where...loose clothing slopes into hidden wood seeking instant escape..
is the place language comes to die.
...we should all read Experimental Short Fiction...
Lee Mackenzie, Poet, Artist
Dull Flowers
Here -
Where...yesterdays comical events sit buried in vintage blue cement..
Where...blistered streams fall into backyard shed..
Where...dull flowers pilfer hedgerow litter..
Where...stone-engined vehicles bruise centre lane grass..
Where...weightless men saunter into cotton hospital shroud..
is the place language comes to die.
Etched Arm
Here -
Where...ripped memory is etched into electric wall..
Where...enveloped escape payments lie forgotten..
Where...plastic bag purchase is photographed and questioned..
Where...traffic stamps impatiently along ditched street..
Where...broken fence literature is sprayed on machined older arm..
is the place language comes to die.
Crow Time Feeding
Here -
Where...recycled daytime hiding is scripted into knifed tree bark..
Where...reckless noise making is brutal and metal knuckled..
Where...vape bloodied cafe gardens groan beneath rusted leather footstep and betrayed seating..
Where...crow time feeding is weed killer gravelled..
Where...small group silence rejects courtyard posters and charity reclaimed allotment..
is the place language comes to die.
Daytime Sleeping
Here -
Where...shielded discount aisles are glued together with spiced smile and free news..
Where...stickered metal bollards herd cheap early morning trainer shoe..
Where...daytime sleeping is bagged with tourist litter..
Where...each stuttering step is guided by habit..
Where...whiskered waterway trees hang on singing electric wire..
is the place language comes to die.
Deaf Ear
Here -
Where...loyalty is sought and funded through dark glass..
Where...anger is buttery..
Where...doorstep begging is hasty and youthful..
Where...brave words are thrown away with cheap lager and soapy gritted water..
Where...curled up broken yard hideaways become legend..
is the place language comes to die.
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Extracts taken from walking notes. Sleepless mornings deep in busy empty streets.
..alongside several boarded up townhouses, torn cars are being buttoned into fired twisted spaces...it's the music of early morning neighbourhood footstep reflected in slow moving traffic windows that stutter and idle into a yawning high street...
...close by, bare armed and heavily booted, keyholders arrive in knots of secret glances and reluctant handshakes, while patiently adopting the routine of shouldered good nature and long days of empty ambition...
Text - Steve Coel
Photograph - Steve Coel
Curated by An 11.59 Publication
Footnote - Why we should all read Experimental Short Fiction
'Experimental writing is often the strop that keeps your knife sharp...to implore that there are different ways of doing things...different perspectives...and different modes of reading.
You will not like all of it, but you will have a greater idea of what you like...and most importantly, you probably won't forget it'
Lee Mackenzie - Poet, Artist
...after too many years spent on The Mercy Path absorbing wire sharp whistled song, farewells will still be given through brick house window and muddied wall...
Here, where young people never return and there are no paths; is the place language comes to die.
