Experimental Short Fiction: Publications + Proposals. © Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
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.
Here -
Where...spirited cloth tightly holds hidden defence..
Where...painted step reveals rusted night-time dancing..
Where...burnt time walking becomes wall shy and forced..
Where...open doors disperse rumour of stolen memory..
Where...expensive remarks are fake..
is the place language comes to die.
Wired Beauty
Here -
Where...drowned road happiness is traded for pennies..
Where...beauty is inked into loose skin..
Where...hostel dispute is shop door knuckled..
Where...salted air breathing is painful reminder of loss..
Where...wired thought becomes backroom industry..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel
Cut by masters of dead trades into bitter grey stone is your complete life story. Brief, like you, words from broken parents target elders who created your passing. Steve Coel
Lowland Feather
...after years spent on The Mercy Path absorbing wire sharp whistled song, farewells are still given through brick house window and muddied wall...
...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...
...(there) out 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...
Steve Coel
Saturday Night
..Experimental Narrative..
Iron Shelter
Steve Coel
Here -
Where...music is day-time dead..
Where...beaten up strangled trees steal fenced air..
Where...pavement shy funeral cars are smokey..
Where...mapped walkway is silenced by small group gossip..
Where...sleeping iron sided shelters are brick piled into bulldozed walls..
is the place language comes to die.
Deaf Ear
Steve Coel
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.
Here -
Where...layered sounds of gated dog and broken motor serenade gloomy high street..
Where...cheap toys are solitary on pavement and stolen trolley..
Where...flagless memory walks sullen and dead down late night dual carriageway tunnel..
Where...simple slogans are stamped hard on tourist lamp post..
Where...lost faces merge with elderly condemned brick..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...early sandal foot death lays down grass foundation..
Where...shallow drunk opinion dominates afternoon decision making..
Where...teenage defence is held tightly to deaf ear..
Where...clumsy stapled barriers warn away passing neighbourhood shadows..
Where...off grid roads disappear through unpleasant fields of illegal chambered stubble..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...sad walled archives crowd day time sky..
Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..
Where...anonymous kiosk cards are pierced carefully on stolen rusty spike rods..
Where...blistered nickel punches into broken fence..
Where...bitter tunes are formed around rough gateway..
is the place language comes to die.
Oiled Doorstep
Steve Coel
Here -
Where...locked doors open to sharp knocking..
Where...clotted shoes clamber over torn stile, delayed stone and heathland water..
Where...fractured ganglines decide night-time movement..
Where...ribboned plastic roof top windows glisten on oiled doorstep..
Where...seagulls congregate to share daytime information..
is the place language comes to die.
Timed Silence
Steve Coel
Here -
Where...silence is timed..
Where...stern booted smiles are frequent..
Where...folded arm argument frames evening entertainment..
Where...car lights halt hooded debt collection..
Where...hi-rise threats are sprayed on dumpster and metal security door..
is the place language comes to die.
Grey Water
Steve Coel
Here -
Where...hollow buildings shadow painted monument..
Where...decaying plastic childhood lies perched on slopes of tall stripped 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.
