Short Fiction: Experiments + Proposals - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Down double sided boarded up streets, torn cars are buttoned into fired up twisted spaces.
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The music of early mornings and neighbourhood footstep is reflected in slow moving traffic that idles and stutters along the yawning High Street.
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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.
Here -
Where...ribboned plastic roof top windows glisten on oiled doorstep..
Where...cluttered twisted ornaments stride down allotment fenced path..
Where...seagulls congregate to share daytime information..
Where...silent voices speak empty values to woollen walls..
Where...small trees blanket fallen brick..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...flakey water and chipped clog merge into whispered avenues of nervous laughter..
Where...hollow buildings shadow painted monument..
Where...booted thunder clatters into ticketed smokey back room..
Where...eyes glare blankly at half empty cups settled on scratched table tops..
Where...tired sea-salt fairground shutters mutter spent messages to gloomy eyed visitor..
Where...dull flowers pilfer hedgerow litter..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...carriageway kinks line a metal assault on painted bank..
Where...melted slice of stairway rug folds into careless shoe..
Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..
Where...damp cloth pulled tight obscures fading gossip..
Where...crowds gather to pass time and silence..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...bleak splintered openings face corrupt wired rubble..
Where...stoney engined vehicle bruises centre lane grass..
Where...fallen dead trees gather along stolen factory wall..
Where...broken machinery sits proudly inside dusty windowed derelict shelter..
Where...shredded cliff top grass twists halted message..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...the living room covered with pictures, masks the door to the cellar and hell..
Where...crunching sound twists all boundaries as it bleeds slowly up through the floor boards..
Where...books littered with thought lie scattered on shredded carpet as oil stains paper and cloth..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...rain drills fluent bitter nightmare into supple iron smile..
Where...tree top dead whispers flap on barbed wire peat field..
Where...thick water sucks daydream along high walled nostalgia..
Where...free newspapers haunt forgotten cold meals outside cracked broken shops..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...narrow lane romance flickers over roof ridged hedge..
Where...bladed vape chatter tumbles into unlit corridor..
Where...slippery couples meet between sheets of harsh fabric..
Where...dead meat flags hang from rusty hook in damp empty rows..
Where...weightless men saunter early into cotton hospital shroud..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Here -
Where...secret hill people hide their harvest crust earnings..
Where...swift water threatens high floating walls of greasy moss and slippery cracked slate..
Where...silver steps to gated harbour crash into scalloped boats..
Where...fussy overcoats and woollen carpet shape grassy valley roadway..
Where...night light blooms on weathered cardboard shelter..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...fly-tipped memory eats up roofless factory space..
Where...stripped bare wall paintings spray the cold message of futile argument..
Where...bricked up elegance is submerged behind hungry false promise..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Etched from St. Augustine's stone into the headland below, you'll find a length of coast that bleeds into the docks. Here, the ritual is of kerbs being painted by elderly welders, daily recruited in pubs that still echo the empty space between water and youth.
Mystery man, shadow man is what they used to call him. Him when he was the latest three day thin whistle at dusk millionaire returning from sea to die like his father. Shallower sea back then mind, better cut cloth, broader smiles. Now though, after too many rope marks and twisted bone, life comes mixed to stillness with drink, sharp curses and dark corners.
Stepping away from the street you pass through a broken broad open two door. Inside, along damp tired walls, you discover anointed paint quietly peeling, a high congregation of brown paper and leather, and frayed by disappointment, unclean fragile carpet falling into gloomy empty corners.
