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 Their cotton bags are half full with out of date tins of meat and dried fruit as they chatter to each other about childhood, romance and warm hands.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

Prepared Whispers

Here -

Where...wrinkled hands, that snap into splintered cotton sleeve, grip trolley and last nights hiding place..

Where...bottom shelf wooden container envelops corner stone shop..

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..

is the place language comes to die.

Here -

Where...angry shadows are nailed on to walled in wasteland..

Where...blistered streams fall into backyard carpet shed..

Where...derelict wood shelters shrivelled worlds..

Where...mudless lanes fracture industry and metal..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

Rescued Footprints - Extracts

Down double sided boarded up streets, torn cars are buttoned into fired up twisted spaces.

*

The music of early mornings and neighbourhood footstep is reflected in slow moving traffic that idles and stutters along the yawning High Street.

*

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.

Steve Coel

Dull Flowers

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

Steve Coel

Dead Trees

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

Steve Coel

Bone House Blues

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

Steve Coel

Cold Meal

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

Steve Coel

Harsh Fabric

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

Steve Coel

 

Bricked Up Elegance

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

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel

Kerbside

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.

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel