No Paths (2026) - Adult Hands...Apple Canal...Back Pocket

Adult Hands

Here -

Where...illegal plastic high releases urgent stammered step..

Where...solitary private glass is windowed in shoddy single drinking room..

Where...stolen adult hands are nailed..

Where...blown factory wall rage by-passes toughened water..

Where...sponsored imagination drains away through rusting pipe..

is the place language comes to die.

Apple Canal  

Here -

 

Where...surface anger is scheduled for evening cycle ride..

Where...delivery boxed vandalism is slow hand clapped on coin free street corner..

Where...carded empty building sites play daytime tunes to passing tin drunk..

Where...scooters litter apple canal space..

Where...walking dogs is compulsory..

is the place language comes to die.

Back Pocket

Here -

Where...frosted symphony bamboo foot bleeds into glass split concrete..

Where...silent fingers cup memory..

Where...bloodied alert eyes are street fierce..

Where...back pocket lamps guide bullied handshake greeting..

Where...muted trolley tight waiting is slow shuffled along wired footpath..

is the place language comes to die.

Lowland Feather - Short Story Extract

Image - Steve Coel

...out there on the scarab pathed moor where lonely birds pleat their song into ferned memory, old feet leisured by a lifetime of pain, shuffle slowly homewards...

...close by, as carefully baited lowland feather slaps its muted surface, ripple stone water stumbles into ice age grass bank...and through gaps in tree tired stone walls, wild horses fret and gather as rutted horizons shadow mountain valley...

 ...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...

No Paths

Here, where young people never return and there are no paths; is the place language comes to die.

Text - Steve Coel

Photograph - Steve Coel

Curated by An 11.59 Publication