Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel
Iron Shelter
Here -
Where...pavement shy funeral cars are smokey..
Where...mapped walking is silenced by small group gossip..
Where...sleeping iron sided shelters are brick piled into bulldozed walls..
Where...music is daytime dead..
Where...beaten up fenced trees strangle the air..
is the place language comes to die.
Cupped Smoke
Here -
Where...recycled gloves spill glassed ale in corner seat of damp pop-up..
Where...grey cigarette stained trackies stand broken in cement bank shelter..
Where...midnight football is supported by passing runaways heading to early morning meal..
Where..cupped smoke and industrial strength poison cans work full-time to keep the cold out..
Where...sharp light slices into puddled indoor short-cut..
is the place language comes to die.
Solo Rooms
Here -
Where...plastic fairground jewelry lies chewed up..
Where...kerbstone wheels dawdle in tune with open door security..
Where..words spoken in jest between strangers are echoes of threat to local trade..
Where...shuttered industry is impatient and bolted into fabric of labour..
Where...failure becomes habit..
is the place language comes to die.
Illegal Fragrance
Here -
Where...dining room corners are secretly guarded..
Where...tightly held anonymous bottles conceal early morning agenda..
Where...rusted chainsaw vans clutter side-street rubbled warehouse..
Where...cheap illegal fragrances batter muted steel trimmed trolley romance..
Where...unseen walking is never invisible..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
