Dead Air into Warm Harp

Since I bust my legs down The Works I's been spending my mornings blowing dead air into warm harp by the Central Library. Bust my heart too truth be told. Lost everything now I has. Still; once I's got enough coin I has a mild and Clark's pie in The Vulcan. And; more often than not, I ends up chatting to the old girls warming themselves up before they goes and shelters under the bridge by The Glastonbury. Clink Hotel across the road gets noisy in the afternoon so I wanders back into town for a bit of a stretch and goes and cadges a cup of tea from Astey's before I heads back down Bute to the Sally for warm meal and early bunk. Really, I doesn't have time to feel sad. Not me. Trick I finds is to forget past and stick to what I knows. Needs change of shoes mind. Probably find some come Sunday in box by side of hostel door.

Steve Coel

Paper Towns: Public Sites, Private Sights

( An 11.59 Publication, 2022 )

No Paths

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

Steve Coel

Old Smiles

Here -

Where...slippery eyes fix on glassy oil pavement..

Where...shop doors embrace the bubble gum smell of illegal cheap drink..

Where...greasy thin blue sky spits light on planked up corner store..

Where...old smiles are reflected in rust..

Where...grey pictures are carelessly hidden in barbed wire hedge..

Where...purple eyes glaze across a stubborn river..

is the place language comes to die.

Here -

Where...burnt out bandstand and gritted wall hold the sky in place..

Where...crippled landscape shakes at the passing of invisible feet..

Where...ugly water washes up dead fish..

Where...padlocks protect broken fields from broken people..

Where...debt plagues argument like two coins rubbed clear..

Where...hills consume history and memory is wiped out by nature..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

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.

Steve Coel

Steve Coel

Cracked Kerbstone Drunk - Extracts

In your spring hat, tied with lost string, you search the free paper for clues for which day you now finds yourself waiting. Because waiting on the corner beat today in the rain for the next delivery, is receiving disturbed glances from local windows and trolley men. And the steady clump of wet shoe against cracked kerbstone drunk is shadowing a high street roaring with anger over closure and debt, where even the most fucked up has memories when called upon. Is called survival so it is.

***

So; you's been shadow hunting? You fucker. Isn't nice. Know what I means? And it sure doesn't look as if it is going to end well either because peoples already got their mobiles out and others are instinctively putting their hands over stash's and stolen wallets. 

   ***   

From the stickered shop window the tidy looking young women shakes a weary head at the nasty row growing on the pavement outside. It was always about dodgy deals and money owed. Always. And she's really sick of seeing the same exhausted faces. The sound of blues up the street usually moved on most, but not all and CCTV(s) are already being clicked off, wiped or removed.

***

Stolen trainers and suede overcoat; owed wraps, scissored finger tips, sellotaped glass', fake tan and orange lipstick; kitchen knife strapped underneath skateboards, grey trade tracksuits and knitted beanies.

***

Seen wearing cheap cloths they's always got expensive rings and expensive boxfresh. Go figure. Seems weird to most, but is accepted down the street because knowledge is learnt early round here. Everyone knows, you don't learn, you's a loser. And that's where you don't ever want to be. Reputations is made young and lasts. Everyone knows this, don't they? Is fucking first lesson for fucks sake!

***

You catch snatch's of stoned smiles floating through the smoked out windows of passing stolen number plates. Everyone knows the street cliches and seems to love them round here. And not ironically, ironically.

Steve Coel

Heathland Water

Here -

Where...small talk clouds swiftly dug passages to the next world..

Where...fractured gang lines decide night time movement..

Where...the slow of foot shadow wooden shovel..

Where...the painted steps, that divide day, disappear like the canal bridge into glassy undergrowth..

Where...glances do not go unnoticed and powerful voices weaken after each glass..

Where...sunny morning and night time star move along rusting underpass..

Where...oily shapes are squandered along collapsed kerbside shop front..

Where...twisted paths sheepishly carve a route across knocked out grass and broken bale...

Where...weather growls at footsteps and distant noise is ancient and honest...

Where...cracked window wired doorways smell of cheap red wine and restless sleep..

Where...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare..

Where...dreams begin and life ends..

is the place language comes to die.

Here -

Where...clipped metal drunken cars clutter the broken citadel at the head of illegal van garaged highways..

Where...coffee blasts from shattered arch vaped chatter..

Where...youth stubble stride across sleeping butchered road..

Where...loose coin is exchanged on the blind side of the adult corner..

Where...small feet climb cob-web steel tree and second hand pram wheels fall into strutted cobble..

Where...locked doors open to sharp knocking..

Where...chapel neat red velvet seats line walls of rooms that glow with stories of hill and tractor, long tipping nights, and arguments lost to hated officials..

Where...memories are painful and lonely deaths from Woodbine and Senior Service are still talked about in public houses..

Where...boasting is frowned upon..

Where...whispers are heathen across bleak land and words are spoken loudly by clear eyed distant people..

Where...clotted shoes clamber over torn stile, delayed stone and heathland water..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

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 rusty nail 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 they 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

Shadow Nut Wood

It begins by the shallow path that slopes unevenly away from the shadow nut wood. Here, along the broken hill and towards the distant wet rock, corrugated cylindered tunnels, all built to hide and imprison, shelter straight back frightened animals.

Thick with the embrace of both mud and food, death stamps its mark into heated spot, as an acid smell of ripped air, fallen dead leaf and crippled motor oil twists open the unyielding buckle of weed.

Steve Coel

Wooden Shovel

Here -

Where...small talk clouds swiftly dug passages to the next world...

Where...fractured gang lines decide night time movement...

Where...the slow of foot shadow wooden shovel...

Where...the painted path, that divides day, disappears like the canal bridge into glassy undergrowth...

Where...glances do not go unnoticed and powerful voices weaken after each glass..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Cheap Wine

Here -

Where...sunny morning and night time shadow move among rusting steel underpass...

Where...oily shapes are squandered along collapsed kerbside shop front...

Where...twisted paths sheepishly carve a route across knocked out grass and broken bale...

Where...weather growls at footsteps and distant noise is ancient and honest...

Where...cracked window wired doorways smell of cheap red wine and restless sleep...

Where...stubs of  paper shape tomorrows nightmare...

Where...dreams begin and life ends..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

Loose Coin

Here -

Where...clipped metal drunken cars clutter the broken citadel at the head of illegal van garaged highway...

Where...coffee blasts from shattered arch match whispered vaped chatter...

Where...youth stubble walk across butchered sleeping path...

Where...loose coin is exchanged on the blind side of adult corners..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

Lace and Metal

Here -

Where...small feet climb cob-web steel tree and pram wheels fall into strutted path...

Where...voices falter and fingers strip lace and metal...

Where...cobbled streets are cursed by van driver and box fresh trainers stumble out of brightly lit off licenced corners..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

Heathland Water

Here -

Where...locked doors open to sharp knocking...

Where...chapel neat red velvet seats line walls of rooms that glow with stories of hill and tractor, long tipping nights, and arguments lost to hated officials...

Where...memories are painful and lonely deaths from Park Drive and Senior Service are still talked about in public houses...

Where...boasting is frowned upon...

Where...whispers are heathen across bleak land...and words are spoken loudly by clear eyed distant people...

Where...clotted shoes clamber over torn stile, delayed stone wall and heathland water..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

Corners

You follows the signs - you has to - is what you does if you needs to get what you needs...is all about corners and way you deals with them - really is the truth of the matter - end of.

Steve Coel

Steve Coel

promise is a promise

Today, doorway...long corridor. Place used to be arcade. Not now. Shops are long gone, roof caved in, steel mesh windows ripped out by scrappies with walls decorated courtesy of local youth. No charge. Nice touch that.

You could say it's quiet round this way now there's nothing left to nick. Council says places like this is going to be developed. We'll see. Meantime it's where I comes to spend my days to finish jobs I been doing during the night. I'll have finished in about six months anyways. Do what the fuck they wants then. All of them. And if they ever finds out what I's been hiding round here won't be any comeback.

Promise is a promise.

Steve Coel

Steve Coel

Derelict Stone

Steve Coel

In high heeled plimsoll, your shoe spears steel spines of cold, open, derelict stone.

Steve Coel

You're close to pub and laughter but in the headlight of fears grip.

Steve Coel

It's a disaster, with anger and rotten spittle flooding poorly lit cardboard city corner and short skirted nightlife.

Steve Coel

See

You can see...

metal  empty  nothing  grim  war  lost  simple  machinery  class  blind  building  hope  gaps  full  atomic  paint  street  flame  schedule  blanket  beach  valley  sweat  furnace  promise  blunt  blank  liquid  warehouse  shield  padlock  flint  bank  balance  blame

Steve Coel

I can see...

puddle  space  imagination  life  calm  fever  plastic  violence  naked  window  landmark  dream  guilt  barricade  paradise  splash  field  narrow  orchard  painting  decay  mine  blunder  silence  spindle  alley  gravel  table  canal  fence  blade  fossil  platform  waste  failure

  Steve Coel

Footfall in Albany

Morning

Is about frail, weightless older men who come into the cafe for their daily three hour coffees, game of cards and who all talk endless bollocks about non existent winning horses.

Afternoon

Is mainly about shapeless smackheads and local hard core druggies who come into the cafe to settle small debts and to boast about knowing where next deal is going to happen.

Evening

End of the day for some. Cheap fatty meals and shelter from street pain.

Late Night

Is about 'real money' being made in busy stockrooms of empty shops.

Steve Coel

The Mercy Path

Once you bypass

the last starched lightning tree

you enter a hillside world

of midnight stream

and border wire music.

Here, across shilling debris

early shadow

and blisters of high mist,

nature composes movement

from iron and broken bone.

Steve Coel

Steve Coel

Tall Ships

It's found up along cobbled visions of forgotten towns in times disputed by all who lived them.

In places caught by Pentax and Olympus, children play on empty streets near to crumbled demolished homes. 

Tall ships hanging over brick wall skulk in this broken vision. Tall ships made by small people whose dreams, daily smashed, mirror the horror of this passing time.

Close by, crisp tied visitors arrive and soon leave. As they always have and always will. Visitors making quick decisions over local pie and ignored cake.

Windowless empty youth painted buildings now scatter to wind and sudden downpour.

In large open working spaces; in tired dormant, feral communities; few people gather each morning for early shift. Labour here is too vague, mechanical and undisputed. Tiredness is instant and contagious. Jokes are few, clumsy and dulled by lack of echo.

Uniforms, worn in shame, are cheap and ill fitting as they signify nothing but cowardice and lack of respect.

Documentary Fiction Photography 

Steve Coel