Here, where young people never return and there are no paths, is where language goes to die.
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Experimental Short Fiction: Publications + Proposals. © Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Demolished Dust
Here -
Where...second hand clipped fashion rails spill strong alcohol and stained toxic mist..
Where...branded table top is purpose placed by shaded night light entry..
Where...rules are manufactured and secrets appear down narrow gulleys..
Where...postage stamp death empties rotten wood window..
Where...gum fleeced stolen memory crumbles onto hidden platform..
Where...juiced radio plays out potent messages to scaffolded local trade..
Where...thick skinned beauty skids abruptly into gridded fence..
Where...fake grins act as currency..
Where...simple gestures are challenged and closely debated..
Where...daily trauma functions alongside passing rumour..
Where...slim concrete staircases funnel nervous jealous glances..
Where...starched wrinkled skin sticks to stretched bone..
Where...young people die old..
Where...unopened door fades into peeling brick and small bottled yard..
Where...glum dance patters aggressively on fractured acre..
Where...conversation is loudly returned to late night pavement..
Where...demolished dust is tied to thick leaved tree..
Where...mobile devices are treated as social defence..
Where...blank material shape shadows coached electric street arcade..
Where...mechanical sun grey light bounces off corner block poverty window..
is the place language comes to die.
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
From 'Footfall in Albany'
Morning
Is all about frail, weightless, frightened older men who come into cafe for daily three hour coffees, game of cards and who all talk endless bollocks about non existent winning horses.
Afternoon
Is mainly about shapeless local smackheads and hard core druggies who come into the cafe to settle small debts and to boast about knowing where the next deal is going to happen.
Evenings
End of the day for some, sees cheap fatty meals and shelter from the pain of the street.
Late nights
Is all about 'real money' being made in busy stockrooms of empty shops.
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
From 'Rear View Mirrors'
In these daytime hideaways unseen from roads and rear view mirrors, nobody has a name.
Here...between rubble and broken glass...shaking hands are shaken and tracksuits are worn to hide shape, weapons and sex.
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Stretched Bone
Here -
Where...fake grins act as currency..
Where...simple gestures are challenged and closely debated..
Where...daily trauma functions alongside passing rumour..
Where...narrow concrete staircases funnel nervous jealous glances..
Where...starched wrinkled skin sticks to stretched bone..
Where...young people die old..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
The Mercy Path
Once you bypass the last lightning tree..
you enter a hillside world of midnight stream and border wire music..
walk across the shilling debris and early shadow..
and watch as blisters of high mist compose movement from iron and broken bone.
Steve Coel
Shadow Nut Wood
Begin by the shallow path that slopes unevenly away from the Shadow Nut Wood..
go towards the broken hill and distant wet rock..
you will soon find the corrugated tunnels built to hide, imprison and shelter straight back frightened animals..
twist open the unyielding buckle of weed that lies thick with the embrace of both mud and food..
and note how death stamps its mark into heated spot creating an acid smell of ripped air, fallen dead leaf and crippled motor oil.
Steve Coel
Juiced Radio
Here -
Where...second hand clipped fashion rails spill strong alcohol and stained toxic mist..
Where...branded table top is purpose placed by shaded night light entry..
Where...rules are manufactured and secrets appear down narrow gulleys..
Where...postage stamp death empties rotten wood window..
Where...gum fleeced stolen memory crumbles onto hidden platform..
Where...juiced radio plays out potent messages to scaffolded local trade..
Where...thick skinned beauty skids abruptly into gridded fence..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel
Glass Shadows
Here -
Where...steep dark pictures dent curved sky-line..
Where...dead fruit is picked clean by unseen nightlife..
Where...leather shoes crack salted grit iron pavement..
Where...early day widows gather to taunt community editors..
Where...heavy bronze wire divides night time misery along broken river front..
Where...cheap tables split abandoned doorways..
Where...warehouse beams trap steel smile and welded arm..
Where...blossom heavy rubble lounges outside fenced in destruction..
Where...fallen brick slices papered railing..
Where...waste pipe lined side streets issue warning to hooded sleepless vagrant..
Where...top floor swearing is frequent..
Where...cliff edge bramble holds litter to ransom..
Where...cold slab chipped rock fountain is smiling and love struck..
Where...mobile notes are glued to pavements damp with summer..
Where...waistcoat watches lie trapped in muddied brickwork..
Where...skin is scissored..
Where...sunlit sea crag is clogged with blue nylon futures..
Where...plastic sand cuts foot and dead wood..
Where...safe walking looks like running..
Where...glitter ball glamour is boarded and gig postered..
Where...barber shop window reflects passing stooped daytime..
Where...sham smiles turn away and re-locate..
Where...singing electric wire hangs on whispering waterway tree..
Where...church bell hymns crack open egg shell mourning..
Where...runaway daydream sinks into warm mud..
Where...sober chatter corrupts polluted chamber and cork lined corridor..
Where...busy ripped cloth store front is box fresh and smokey..
Where...puzzled footstep is matched with clumsy frail voice..
Where...pick-up warnings are scratched into street corner metal..
Where...small creatures move tightly through weed walls at midday..
Where...glass shadow stretches into shoeless avenue..
Where...blank looks remain stubborn with old age..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Docks Museum
Today...dry docks glisten with salty channel rain as woollen old men sit on one of their favourite benches. Each will smile broadly as together they remember the songs and laughter of the young hard welders they once were. Today...visitors will glance at walls of dismal grey photographs. Some of the photographs show weary men and women waving half empty beer glasses in the air. Others are of car empty streets clogged with leather boots being dragged to early shifts. And some are of boys playing scrappy football with tight balls of Western and Echo in muddy parks bordered with adverts for cheap beer and bread.
Tomorrow...the old men will be back as usual and see it all once more as yet again departing visitors will pass by them unnoticed.
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Street Corner Metal
Here -
Where...busy ripped cloth store front is box fresh and smokey..
Where...puzzled footstep is matched with clumsy frail voice..
Where...pick-up warnings are scratched into street corner metal..
Where...small creatures move tightly through weed walls at midday..
Where...glass shadow stretches into shoeless avenue..
Where...blank looks remain stubborn with old age..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Warm Mud
Here -
Where...safe walking looks like running..
Where...glitter ball glamour is boarded and gig postered..
Where...barber shop window reflects passing stooped daytime..
Where...sham smiles turn away and re-locate..
Where...singing electric wire hangs on whiskered waterway tree..
Where...happiness is hidden in fly tipped back lane..
Where...church bell hymns crack open egg shell mourning..
Where...crafted leather shoes sink into warm mud..
Where...sober chatter corrupts polluted chamber and cork lined corridor..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Paper Towns
All along the Mercy Road in six month empty paper towns elderly people in torn slippers walk painfully along iron grit footpaths. Their cotton bags are half full with out of date tins of meat and dried fruit as they chatter to each other about childhood, romance and warm hands. Life for them will end here, these places once called home, and their shared memories will soon be forgotten as nature wipes away each doorstep dream and bridal curtain.
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Half Stolen Buildings
In her regulation daytime armour still cracking with coarse whispers and yesterdays broken promise, the young girl pushes her vape shadowed baby carrier past boarded up pub windows. Her world is the high street where each day a bitter grey tide shambles downhill towards abandoned blue churches and disappearing city light. And it is here plastic shoes will slap into one off needles that litter fishless gutters and where, even on dry days, the pavement is damp.
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Plastic Sand
Here -
Where...cliff edge bramble holds litter to ransom..
Where...cold slab chipped rock fountain is smiling and love struck..
Where...mobile notes are glued to pavements damp with summer..
Where...waistcoat watches lie trapped in muddied brickwork..
Where...skin is scissored..
Where...sunlit sea crag is clogged with blue nylon futures..
Where...plastic sand cuts foot and dead wood..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Bronze Wire
Here -
Where...steep dark pictures dent curved sky-line..
Where...dead fruit is picked clean by unseen nightlife..
Where...leather shoes crack salted grit iron pavement..
Where...early day widows gather to taunt community editors..
Where...heavy bronze wire divides night time misery along broken river front..
Where...cheap tables split abandoned doorways..
Where...warehouse beams trap steel smile and welded arm..
Where...blossom heavy rubble lounges outside fenced in destruction..
Where...fallen brick slices postered railing..
Where...waste pipe lined side streets issue warning to hooded sleepless vagrant..
Where...top floor swearing is frequent..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Smells of Time
In you comes -
in your sad seven year old ironic tracksuit and pair of box fresh.
In you comes -
looking for deals on the board behind the counter which we know show same best day as last time, last week, last month.
In you comes -
doing quick sums and ordering a dozen shots with your release money which you quickly shares out to punters who isn't interested.
In you comes -
barely missed and completely blitzed, just another forgotten madman.
In you comes,
a madman bent by routine, a madman twisted by addiction, a madman caught in the to and fro of the outside world which has turned its back and good riddance.
In you comes -
smelling of time.
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Yesterdays Broken Promise
Here -
Where...carriageway kinks line metal assaults on painted bank..
Where...melted slices of stairway rug fold into careless shoe..
Where...half gloved fists 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...small engined vehicles bruise centre lane grass..
Where...fallen dead trees gather along stoney 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.
Here -
Where...ribboned plastic roof top windows glisten on oiled doorstep..
Where...cluttered ornaments stride down allotment fenced path..
Where...seagulls congregate to share daytime information..
Where...flakey water and chipped clog merge into whispered avenues of nervous laughter..
Where...booted thunder clatters into ticketed smokey backroom..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
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..
Where...wrinkled hands, that snap into cotton sleeve, grip trolley and last nights hiding place..
Where...bottom shelf wooden container envelops corner stone shop..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...small rusty badges and yellowed brick are etched on pointed walking stick..
Where...fragmented sour heeled machinery lies idle..
Where...cloth eared movement is ghostly..
Where...angry shadows are nailed on to walled in wasteland..
Where...blistered streams fall into backyard carpet shed..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...derelict woods shelter shrivelled worlds..
Where...mudless lanes fracture industry and metal..
Where...tacky brass emblems cling to sprayed walls of distant commerce..
Where...slow brickwork slivers of expectation collide with motored demolition..
Where...yesterdays comical events sit buried in vintage blue cement dust..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...repaired jigsaw roads wait for seasonal pacing and frosty morning..
Where...thick suited men drink bottled park bench liquid breakfast..
Where...pavement paper is hidden behind spirals of broken bicycle..
Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Cans of Blood
Here -
Where...thick suited men drink bottled park bench liquid breakfast..
Where...bitter, blameless minds enter watered down invisible strips of shadow..
Where...pavement paper is hidden behind spirals of broken bicycle..
Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
Abandoned Nightmare
Here -
Where...small cracked attic windows look down on worried waiting shadow..
Where...decaying plastic childhood lies perched on slopes of tall decaying tree..
Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded, sprayed walls of distant commerce..
Where...the slow brickwork slivers of expectation collide with motored demolition..
Where...yesterdays comical events sit buried in vintage blue cement dust..
Where...repaired jigsaw roads wait for seasonal pacing and frosty morning..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
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