Push Chair

Cruel Lips

Here-

Where...bitter tunes are formed around rough gateway..

Where...steep hill shop fronts bend with debt..

Where...gloved hands hide in plastic bag lined overcoat..

Where...scarred beauty is magnified by haunted woolen cover..

Where...cruel lips swear into hidden micro market stall..

is the place language comes to die.

Chewed Up

Here -

Where...plastic fairground jewellery lies chewed up..

Where...kerbstone wheels dawdle in tune with open door security camera..

Where...words spoken in jest between strangers are echoed as threat to local trade..

Where...shuttered motor industry is impatient and bolted into the fabric of labour..

Where...failure becomes habit..

is the place language comes to die.

Walled in Wasteland

Here -

Where...booted thunder clatters into ticketed smoky backroom..

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

Where...blank looks remain stubborn with old age..

Where...each step is guided by local paper..

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

is the place language comes to die.

Broken Light

Here -

Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded walls of commerce..

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

Where...waistcoat watches lie trapped in muddied brickwork..

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

Where...beauty is hooded..

is the place language comes to die.

Secret Keys

Here -

Where...angry muted back street conversation is hidden..

Where...illegal music gags unlicensed holder of secret keys..

Where...push chair convention is ignored..

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

Where...skin is scissored..

is the place language comes to die.

Secret Keys

Here -

Where...angry muted back street conversation is hidden..

Where...illegal music gags unlicensed holder of secret keys..

Where...push chair convention is ignored..

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

Where...skin is scissored..

is the place language comes to die.

Broken Light

Here -

Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded sprayed walls of distant commerce..

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

Where...waistcoat watches lie trapped in muddied brickwork..

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

Where...beauty is hooded..

is the place language comes to die.

Walled in Wasteland

Here -

Where...booted thunder clatters into ticketed smoky backroom..

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

Where...blank looks remain stubborn with old age..

Where...each step is guided by habit..

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

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Chewed Up

Here -

Where...plastic fairground jewellery lies chewed up..

Where...kerbstone wheels idle dawdle in tune with open door security camera..

Where...words spoken in jest between strangers are echoed as threat to local trade..

Where...shuttered motor industry is impatient and bolted into the fabric of labour..

Where...failure becomes habit..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Modern Memory as Pavement Paper

Recent MicroFlashFictions 

Steve Coel...

Cruel Lips

Careless Shoes - Compilation ( 2023 )

False Promise

Sad Walls

Invisible Feet

Nobody's Busy Fool

Thin Whistle at Dusk

Painted Brick

Big Vision

Rattled Stride

Half Stolen Buildings

Laughter

House

Tall Ships

Footfall in Albany

The Right Shadows - Compilation ( 2022 )

Daytime Hideaways

The Right Shadow

The Mercy Path

The Proposal

Stretched Bone #1 - #10 - Compilation ( 2022 )

Wild Places

Rains on Me

Up at the Knock

Smells of Time

Small Pockets

The Wet Shift

Paper Towns

Dead Air into Warm Harp

Bitter Fingers

Reading Glass

Jealous Feet

Broken Zips

Burnt Timber

Nice Breakfast

In the Blood

Apples and Pears

Broken Doorways

heb deitl - Arbrofion

MicroFlashFiction 

c.Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Cruel Lips

Here -

Where...bitter tunes are formed around rough gateway..

Where...steep hill shop fronts bend with debt..

Where...gloved hands hide in plastic bag lined overcoat..

Where...scarred beauty is magnified by haunted woolen cover..

Where...cruel lips swear into hidden micro market stall..

is the place language comes to die.

Careless Shoes

Rattled Stride

Here -

Where...bladed vape chatter tumbles into unlit corridor..

Where...sour heeled machinery lies idle..

Where...cracked glass memory leans into elbowed temper..

Where...crippled time shelters from hillside churched solitude..

Where...rusty thimble alcoholics drink cold cartons of charity coffee..

is the place language comes to die.

Big Vision

Here -

Where...thick suited men drink bottled park bench liquid breakfast..

Where...melted slices of stairway rug fold into careless shoe..

Where...dead meat flags hang from rusty hook in damp empty rows..

Where...closed shops remain open..

Where...the big vision is narrow and short lived..

is the place language comes to die.

Sad Walls

Here -

Where...glitter ball glamour is boarded up and gig postered..

Where...simple gestures are challenged and closely debated..

Where...machine winnings replace job prospects..

Where...broken promises are public..

Where...sad walled archives crowd day time sky..

is the place language comes to die.

False Promise

Here -

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

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

Where...bricked up elegance is submerged behind hungry false promise..

Where...early day windows gather to taunt community editors..

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

is the place language comes to die

Erratic Stones

Here -

Where...slip leaf leather footsteps shovel misery along siren alerted local high street..

Where...cold hands shake out the truth about early death..

Where...broken promises are guaranteed..

Where...hawthorn trees loiter among erratic stones of ancient pathway..

Where...wire ridged hillside animals shadow tin roofed wooden shelter..

Is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Erratic Stones - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Here -

Where...slip leaf leather footsteps shovel misery along siren alerted local high street..

Where...cold hands shake out the truth about childhood romance and early death..

Where...broken promises are guaranteed..

Where...hawthorn trees loiter among erratic stones of ancient pathway..

Where...wire ridged hillside animals shadow tin roofed wooden shelter..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Documentary Fiction Photography - Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

False Promise

Here -

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

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

Where...bricked up elegance is submerged behind hungry false promise..

Where...early day windows gather to taunt community editors..

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

is the place language comes to die.

Sad Walls

Here -

Where...glitter ball glamour is boarded up and gig postered..

Where...simple gestures are challenged and closely debated..

Where...machine winnings replace job prospects..

Where...broken promises are public..

Where...sad walled archives crowd day time sky..

is the place language comes to die.

Invisible Feet

Here -

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

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

Where...tree top dead whispers flap on barbed wire peat field..

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

Where...happiness is solitary, forgotten and distant..

is the place language comes to die.

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.

Painted Brick

Here -

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

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

Where...top floor swearing is frequent..

Where...bitter hands rub endlessly into painted brick..

Where...poor disguises are deliberate..

is the place language comes to die.

Big Vision

Here -

Where...thick suited men drink bottled park bench liquid breakfast..

Where...melted slices of stairway rug fold into careless shoe..

Where...dead meat flags hang from rusty hook in damp empty rows..

Where...closed shops remain open..

Where...the big vision is narrow and short-lived..

is the place language comes to die.

Rattled Stride

Here -

Where...bladed vape chatter tumbles into unlit corridor..

Where...sour heeled machinery lies idle..

Where...cracked glass memory leans into elbowed temper..

Where...crippled time shelters from hillside churched solitude..

Where...rusty thimble alcoholics drink cold cartons of charity coffee..

is the place language comes to die.

Half Stolen Buildings

In her regulation daytime armour that still cracks with the coarse whisper of yesterdays broken promise, the young girl pushes her vape shadowed baby carrier past boarded up pub windows. Her world is the local high street, where each day a bitter grey tide shambles downhill towards abandoned blue churches and disappearing city light. And it is here her plastic shoes will slap into one off needles that litter paper gutters and where, even on dry days, the pavement is damp.

Laughter

Some rules have never been written down because everyone knows what they are. It's an odd kind of laughter sometimes.

House

Row after row of empty houses. Once they had people living in them, families. They don't anymore because they're not very nice. Rooms small, stairs narrow, walls too thin and the road that now passes each front door is always busy and dangerous. Cold and damp the window frames rotted, so with water dripping everywhere, the floorboards warped and sagged. These houses are twenty years old.

Tall Ships

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

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

Tall ships hang over brick walls in this broken vision. Tall ships made by small grey people whose dreams, daily smashed, mirror the horror of departure. 

Close by, crisp tied visitors make quick decisions over ignored pie and local cake.

Footfall in Albany

Morning

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

Afternoon

Is centred on 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.

Evening

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

Late Night

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

Documentary Fiction Photography

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

The Right Shadows ( 2022 )

Daytime Hideaways

Between rubble and broken glass, in backspaces unseen from roads and rear view mirrors, shaking hands are being shaken. Tracksuits here are worn to hide shape, weapons and sex, and trade, like this space, is invisible and unknown.

The Right Shadow

Grey when you's staying at Clink Hotel. Black when you returns home to no fixed address. Each casts the right shadow, makes you invisible. Makes you useful.

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.

The Proposal

Cut into bitter grey stone by masters of dead trades, your life story. Brief like you, words torn from broken parents target the elders who created your passing.

No Paths

Here, where young people never return and there are no paths, is the place language goes to die and old people stop to watch lost cars drive pass.

Stretched Bone #6 - Stretched Bone #10

Stretched Bone #6

Here -

Where...boasting is frowned upon..

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

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

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

Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..

Where...eyes glare blankly at half empty cups settled on scratched table tops..

Where...steep dark pictures dent curved sky-line..

Where...mobile notes are glued to pavements damp with summer..

Where...young people die old..

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

is the place language comes to die.

Stretched Bone #7

Here -

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

Where...stripped bare wall paintings spray the cold message of futile argument..

Where...narrow lane romance flickers over roof ridged border..

Where...small rusty badges and yellowed brick are etched on pointed walking stick..

Where...cheap tables split abandoned doorways..

Where...cliff edge bramble holds litter to ransom..

Where...puzzled footstep is matched with clumsy frail voice..

Where...second hand clipped fashion rails spill strong alcohol and stained toxic mist..

Where...narrow concrete staircases funnel nervous jealous glances..

Where...beauty is hooded..

is the place language comes to die.

Stretched Bone #8

Here -

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

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

Where...the slow brickwork slivers of expectation collide with motored demolition..

Where...routine is never obvious..

Where...fuzzy pictures reveal short hard lives scratched on to broken dockside and burnt timber..

Where...homes are splashed across derelict, tired hillside..

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

is the place language comes to die.

Stretched Bone #9

Here -

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

Where...fussy overcoats and woollen carpet shape grassy valley roadway..

Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..

Where...fallen brick slices postered railing..

Where...juiced radios play out potent messages to scaffolded local trade..

Where...antique van apathy clings to melted future..

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

Where...teenage anger lasts long into retirement..

Where...harmony is seen between broken shop trolley, mid-summer puffa jacket and cannabis vape..

Where...bottom shelf goods are swallowed by small pockets..

is the place language comes to die.

Stretched Bone #10

Here -

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

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

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

Where...slippery couples meet between sheets of harsh fabric..

Where...handshakes are never between strangers..

Where...crowds gather to pass time and silence..

Where...derelict woods shelter shrivelled worlds..

Where...fake grins act as currency..

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

Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Stretched Bone #10

Here -

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

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

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

Where...slippery couples meet between sheets of harsh fabric..

Where...handshakes are never between strangers..

Where...crowds gather to pass time and silence..

Where...derelict woods shelter shrivelled worlds..

Where...fake grins act as currency..

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

Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel

Steve Coel

 

Stretched Bone #9

Here -

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

Where...fussy overcoats and woollen carpet shape grassy valley roadway..

Where...modern memory is glazed with empty cans of blood..

Where...fallen brick slices postered railing..

Where...juiced radio plays out potent messages to scaffolded local trade..

Where...antique van apathy clings to melted future..

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

Where...teenage anger lasts long into retirement..

Where...harmony is seen between broken shop trolley, mid-summer puffa jacket and cannabis vape..

Where...bottom shelf goods are swallowed by small pockets..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel

Stretched Bone #8

Here -

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

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

Where...the slow brickwork slivers of expectation collide with motored demolition..

Where...routine is never obvious..

Where...fuzzy pictures reveal short hard lives scratched on to broken dockside and burnt timber..

Where...homes are splashed across derelict, tired hillside..

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

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel

Stretched Bone #7

Here -

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

Where...stripped bare wall paintings spray the cold message of futile argument..

Where...narrow lane romance flickers over roof ridged border..

Where...small rusty badges and yellowed brick are etched on pointed walking stick..

Where...cheap tables split abandoned doorways..

Where...cliff edge bramble holds litter to ransom..

Where...puzzled footstep is matched with clumsy frail voice..

Where...second hand clipped fashion rails spill strong alcohol and stained toxic mist..

Where...narrow concrete staircases funnel nervous jealous glances..

Where...beauty is hooded..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel

Stretched Bone #6

Here -

Where...boasting is frowned upon..

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

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

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

Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..

Where...eyes glare blankly at half empty cups settled on scratched table tops..

Where...steep dark pictures dent curved sky-line..

Where...mobile notes are glued to pavements damp with summer..

Where...young people die old..

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

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel

Stretched Bone #1 - Stretched Bone #5

Stretched Bone #1

Here -

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

Where...oily shapes are squandered along collapsed kerbside shopfront..

Where...dreams begin and life ends..

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

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

Where...faded memory eats up roofless factory space..

Where...damp cloth pulled tight obscures fading gossip..

Where...cluttered twisted ornaments stride down sparrow allotment fenced path..

Where...for the cloth eared, movement is ghostly..

Where...warehouse beams trap steel smile and welded arm..

is the place language comes to die.

Stretched Bone #2

Here -

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

Where...rain drills fluent bitter nightmare into supple iron smile..

Where...broken machinery sits proudly inside dusty windowed derelict shelter..

Where...silent voices speak empty values to woollen walls..

Where...cold chipped slab rock fountain is smiling and love struck..

Where...happiness is hidden in fly tipped back lane..

Where...crafted leather shoes sink into warm mud..

Where...gum fleeced stolen memory crumbles on to hidden platform..

Where...thick skinned beauty skids abruptly into gridded fence..

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

is the place language comes to die.

Stretched Bone #3

Here -

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

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

Where...shredded cliff top grass twists halted message..

Where...bitter, blameless minds enter watered down invisible strips of grey..

Where...dead fruit is picked clean by unseen nightlife..

Where...barber shop windows reflect passing stooped daytime..

Where...cheap toys are solitary on garden wall and stolen trolley..

Where...lost faces merge with elderly condemned brick..

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

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

is the place language comes to die.

Stretched Bone #4

Here -

Where...Sunday morning dead mans clutter waits for eager hands..

Where...open spaces become dog bound and burnt by fogged spite..

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

Where...skin is scissored..

Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded, sprayed walls of distant commerce..

Where...yesterdays comical events sit buried in vintage blue cement..

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

Where...dull flowers pilfer hedgerow litter..

Where...stoney-engined vehicle bruises centre lane grass..

Where...weightless men saunter early into cotton hospital shroud..

is the place language comes to die.

Stretched Bone #5

Here -

Where...thick water sucks daydream along nostalgia painted high wall..

Where...blank splintered openings face corrupt wired rubble..

Where...small cracked attic window looks down on worried waiting shadow..

Where...hollow buildings mirror collapsed monument..

Where...tired sea-salt fairground shutters mute spent messages to gloomy eyed visitor..

Where...blossom heavy stone lounges outside fenced in destruction..

Where...pick-up warnings are scratched into street corner metal..

Where...blank looks remain stubborn with old age..

Where...rules are manufactured and secrets appear down narrow gulleys..

Where...anger is buttery..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Stretched Bone #5

Where...thick water sucks daydream along nostalgia painted high wall..

Where...blank splintered openings face corrupt wired rubble..

Where...small cracked attic window looks down on worried waiting shadow..

Where...hollow buildings mirror collapsed monument..

Where...tired sea-salt fairground shutters mute spent messages to gloomy eyed visitor..

Where...blossom heavy stone lounges outside fenced in destruction..

Where...pick-up warnings are scratched into street corner metal..

Where...blank looks remain stubborn with old age..

Where...rules are manufactured and secrets appear down narrow gulleys..

Where...anger is buttery.

Steve Coel

Stretched Bone #4

Where...Sunday morning dead mans clutter waits for eager hands..

Where...open spaces become dog bound and burnt by fogged spite..

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

Where...skin is scissored..

Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded, sprayed walls of distant commerce..

Where...yesterdays comical events sit buried in vintage blue cement..

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

Where...dull flowers pilfer hedgerow litter..

Where...stoney-engined vehicle bruises centre lane grass..

Where...weightless men saunter early into cotton hospital shroud.

Steve Coel

Stretched Bone #3

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

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

Where...shredded cliff top grass twists halted message...

Where...bitter, blameless minds enter watered down invisible strips of shadow..

Where...dead fruit is picked clean by unseen nightlife..

Where...barber shop windows reflect passing stooped daytime..

Where...cheap toys are solitary on garden wall and stolen trolley..

Where...lost faces merge with elderly condemned brick..

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

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

Steve Coel

Stretched Bone #2

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

Where...rain drills fluent bitter nightmare into supple iron smile..

Where...broken machinery sits proudly inside dusty windowed derelict shelter..

Where...silent voices speak empty values to woollen walls.. 

Where...cold chipped slab rock fountain is smiling and love struck..

Where...happiness is hidden in fly tipped back lane..

Where...crafted leather shoes sink into warm mud..

Where...gum fleeced stolen memory crumbles onto hidden platform..

Where...thick skinned beauty skids abruptly into gridded fence..

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

Steve Coel

Steve Coel

Stretched Bone #1

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

Where...oily shapes are squandered along collapsed kerbside shopfront..

Where...dreams begin and life ends..

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

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

Where...fly-tipped memory eats up roofless factory space..

Where...damp cloth pulled tight obscures fading gossip..

Where...cluttered twisted ornaments stride down sparrow allotment fenced path..

Where...for the cloth eared, movement is ghostly...

Where...warehouse beams trap steel smile and welded arm.

Steve Coel

Wild Places

 

Steve Coel

Rains on Me

Innocence doesn't exist here. Not even for the young. No; here there is only idle backyard gossip about short goodbyes to forgotten lovers, and, etched into shop fronts and dockside jetty, the dead eyes of drunken uncles staring from fireplace photographs.

Steve Coel

Up at the knock

You's always in the hidden places. 

Seen walking along the cold suede banks into the windowless tin roof shacks guarded by blinded geese and haunted by the black hair of the missing. 

And you's seen down the tight velvet lanes too, where the wild horses run and beer is drunk and apples still grow in secret orchards.

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 which has turned its back and good riddance.

In you comes -

smelling of time.

Steve Coel

Small Pockets

Here -

Where...lack of light is accepted..

Where...distracted actions are captured in shuttered doorways of forgotten industrial estates..

Where...open spaces become dog bound and burnt by fogged spite..

Where...electric holes are constructed to control and monitor neighbourhoods..

Where...each step is guided by habit..

Where...bottom shelf goods are swallowed by small pockets..

Where...groups of people congregate and fail to notice each other..

Where...poor disguises are deliberate..

is the place language comes to die.

Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel