Nice Breakfast [ Extracts ]

Nice Breakfast is about a female door person. A threat last heard in prison, has been directed at her and she really needs to find out if the threat is a real one and deal with it quickly. Before things turn really, really nasty.

*

Makes a nice breakfast me. When I's got the time. Keep it simple I says. Works for me every time. Breakfast pretty much sums up the way I approaches most things in my life. But I's still thinking, thinking too much actually, about where I was made the mistake that might just prove to be the game changer.

See; time inside can be time well spent for some. But first you got to adapt and get used to different ways of doing things. There is, for example, a particular noise which you either get used to or you don't. If you's been in you knows exactly what I's been talking about. Like a quiet scream is what it sounds like, like a huge cry for mercy is what it really is. Only mercy don't ever come until it's all over and too late.

Steve Coel

From 'Tin Collectors', 2015

In the Blood

You's probably seen my picture. More than likely in the papers. Looks a bit different now. Big fella then like. Once done lot of adverts for the tele. Today things changed, can't stick jobs too long, nerves shot see. All started when I was just a kid. See Dad managed to talk his way onto shift at Ellington. So me and Dad and his mates got to spend time underground like they'd been doing in the valley since they all left school. Laugh it was, cos we's all on holiday with the club at the time. Mum was furious. As it goes years just shot by. And I wasn't laughing after my last time down. Cos after 15 hours digging only came back up with me best mates arms. Didn't want my picture in the papers then. Trust me.

Steve Coel

From 'Tin Collectors', 2015

Apples and Pears

Got another letter today. 

Just another reminder. 

Just like all the others.

Then.

Times were different and some still say if you remember what you were doing you weren't there. But I remember. It was great. Saturday nights dancing at the 'Apples and Pears' with all the other Mods and then off we'd all go Sunday morning to Southend or Margate, for a laugh. For me though it only took one big mistake to make all the good things stop and that was seeing that stupid card in the pub window down the Old Kent.  All it said was, 'Fence - Good Money, Ask for Chick Before Closing'. So, for a dare really, next Saturday, after listening to new singles with the girls down Woolworths, I went over there and asked for Chick. Don't really understand what it all meant back then. Do now.

Now.

Down the market this afternoon, people commented about my lovely sixties hairstyle and how it suits me, some even asked after mother. But I don't like talking, never did, so I just got on with things. I mean, after all those years inside I learnt to keep myself to myself. And as for mother, well least said really. So here I am. I keep myself clean and live off the money I got given on release. It's what they owe me after all, seeing as how I've kept my mouth shut all these years. So when each new letter arrives like the one today, I'll read it just once and put it away with the others. There's no way round it, I am what I am, a rich woman with no life.

Pity mother isn't alive to share it with me really.

Steve Coel

From 'Tin Collectors', 2015.

Broken Doorways

Here -

Where...slim smiles are given at shop exits and short change is expected..

Where...suspicious tin badge statements are worn like dismissed broken attitude..

Where...nervous parked cars are hidden from stolen eyes..

Where...beauty is hooded..

Where...wild animals pass through broken work door..

is the place language comes to die.

Documentary Fiction Photography 

Steve Coel

Deaf Ear - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Here -

Where...loyalty is sought and funded through dark glass..

Where...anger is buttery..

Where...door step begging is hasty and youthful..

Where...brave words are thrown away with cheap lager and soapy grey gritted water..

Where...curled up broken yard hideaways become legend..

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..

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..

Where...sad walled archive crowds 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..

is the place language comes to die.

Documentary Fiction Photography 

Steve Coel

From 'Yesterdays Broken Promise'

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

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 one of the stickered shop windows a tidy looking young women is shaking a weary head at the nasty row growing on the pavement outside. It was always about dodgy deals and money owed. Always. And always the same exhausted faces. Sound of blues fast approaching up the street usually moves on most, but not all. And CCTV[s] are already being clicked off, wiped or removed.

And all the time is snatch's of stoned smiles floating through smoked windows of passing stolen number plates. Everyone knows the street cliche's and seems to love them round here. And not ironically, ironically.

Documentary Fiction Photography 

Steve Coel

Blistered Nickel

Here -

Where...vital instinct survives by kicking inflamed fragile nightmare..

Where...sad walled archive crowds day time sky..

Where...banked torn tree fence collapses on to wired market..

Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..

Where...anonymous kiosk cards are pierced carelessly on stolen rusty spiked rod..

Where...blistered nickel punches into broken brick..

is the place language comes to die.

Documentary  Fiction Photography 

Steve Coel

Lost Faces

Here -

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..

Where...sandal foot early death lays down grass avenue foundation..

Where...shallow drunk opinion dominates afternoon decision making..

Where...teenage defence is tightly held to deaf ear..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography 

Steve Coel

National Flash Fiction Day [ NFFD ] -  18 June, 2022

Cheap Toys

Here -

Where...loyalty is sought and funded through dark glass..

Where...anger is buttery..

Where...door step begging is hasty and youthful..

Where...brave words are thrown away with cheap lager and gritted soapy grey water..

Where...curled up broken yard hideaways become legend..

Where...layered sounds of gated dog and broken motor serenade gloomy high street..

Where...cheap toys are solitary on pavement post and stolen trolley..

is the place language comes to die.

Documentary Fiction Photography 

Steve Coel

No Paths

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

Documentary Fiction Photography 

Steve Coel

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

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

Thin Whistle at Dusk

Mystery man, shadow man is what they used to call him. Him when he was the latest three day thin whistle at dusk millionaire returning from sea to die like his father. Shallower sea back then mind, better cut cloth, broader smiles. Now though, after too many rope marks and twisted bone, life comes mixed to stillness with drink, sharp curses and dark corners.

Steve Coel

Empty corners

Stepping away from the street you pass through a broken broad open two door. Inside, along damp tired walls, you discover anointed paint quietly peeling, a high congregation of brown paper and leather, and frayed by disappointment, unclean fragile carpet falling into gloomy empty corners.

Steve Coel