Short Fiction: Experiments + Proposals - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Honest Footstep - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...weather growls at footsteps and distant noise is ancient and honest..
Where...rain drills fluent bitter nightmare into supple iron smile..
Where...broken machinery sits proudly inside dusty windowed derelict shelter..
Where...silent voices speak empty values to woolen walls..
Where...cold slab chipped rock fountain is smiling and love struck..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Shadow Nut Wood - Steve Coel
It begins by the shallow path that slopes unevenly down hill away from the shadow nut wood. Here, all along the broken hill, towards the distant wet rock, corrugated cylindered tunnels built to hide, imprison and shelter straight back frightened animals, lie rusting.
The air remains thick with the embrace of their death and the mud, stamped flat by heated spot, is acidic with fallen leaf and crippled motor oil, which in turn, twists open the unyielding buckle of weed.
From The Mercy Path ( 2024 ), Steve Coel
False Doors - Steve Coel
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.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Melted Shoe - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...thick suited men drink bottled park bench liquid breakfast..
Where...melted slices of stairway rug fold into careless shoe..
Where...dead meat flags hang from rusty hook in damp empty rows..
Where...closed shops remain open..
Where...the big vision is narrow and short-lived..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Idle Heels - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...bladed vape chatter tumbles into unlit corridor..
Where...fragmented sour heeled machinery lies idle..
Where...cracked glass memory leans into elbowed temper..
Where...crippled time shelters from hillside churched solitude..
Where...rusty thimble alcoholics drink cold cartons of charity coffee..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Tree Litter - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...slip leaved footstep shovels misery along a siren alert high street..
Where...cold hands shake out the truth about childhood romance and early death..
Where...broken promises are guaranteed..
Where...hawthorn trees loiter among the erratic stones of ancient pathway..
Where...wired ridge hillside animals shadow tin roofed wooden shelter..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Grey Water - Steve Coel
Here-
Where...hollow buildings shadow painted monument..
Where...decaying plastic childhood lies perched on slopes of tall decaying tree..
Where...repaired jigsaw roads wait for seasonal pacing and frosty morning..
Where...starched wrinkled skin sticks to stretched bone..
Where...daily trauma functions alongside passing rumour..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
Celf Stryd - Lloegr
Melted Future - Steve Coel
Here -
Where...old smiles are reflected in rust..
Where...crafted leather shoes sink in warm mud..
Where...happiness is hidden in fly tipped back lane..
Where...lost faces merge with elderly condemned brick..
Where...slippery eyes fix on glassy oil pavement..
is the place language comes to die.
Half Stolen Buildings, Steve Coel
