A Memory for Bukowski

A Memory for Bukowski


i watch you

throw your legs

out of the car

on the passenger side

on to the sidewalk.


straight into the path

of the local blind beggar

i watch you

kick away his stick

steal his money

and dig

your knife

in deep.


i watch you

step back into your car

and drive away

a poorer man.


steve coel

steve coel

De / City Tour.

seems never ending. this is a good thing. i think.


steve coel

an1159publication.wixsite.com/stevecoel

Lighten up

Lighten up

mystery man...shadow man...is what they used to call him...

the thin whistle at dusk...returning from sea to die again...

over and over...shallower sea back then...better cut cloth...

broader smile...too many rope marks...twisted bones

on metal...drinks drunk...with sharp curses shared 

in dark corners...

steve coel

Ranny Bay, Lavernock

steve coel

keepin on, keepin on.

steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

Going on

Going on

poisonous words

leaving that familiar taste

it's a street thing really.

really

if it's going down

you're going to know

someone will always tell you,

get the message through.

so; stands to reason

you'll either deal with it

or leave.

quick like.

most neighbourhoods i know,

or knew,

have the same logic

every time.

steve coel [ somewhere in Idaho or Colorado ]

De / City Tour

steve coel

rumbles on.

steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

De / City Tour

heb deitl

steve coel

preparing for the next gig.

notes:

it's the duty of the blind men

to show us all the way

and daughters of the richer man

to make us want to stay

the seeker of the truth

who fights against his will

it's a great leap into darkness

for us all.

hard countryside.  hard people.

dakota by greyhound.


city nights. is all.

steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

curious man of the sea

Illustration - curious man of the sea

steve coel

Invitation Cover - Launch

curious man of the sea

steve coel

curious man of the sea [ sleeve notes ]

...and a private boudoir

of front page glamour...

written in a painstakingly spidery hand

will simply be...

the reflection of a women

breaking the pinking surface

of a puddle 

with her stride...

 The Wolf Within by steve coel [ 2017 ]

steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

Cadillac Heart

performed this week.

mainly pieces from cadillac heart [ 1986 - 1996 ].

just because.

sounded quite topical even out of my, by now, older mind.

i'm thinking of re-recording many of my previous works.

cadillac heart might just be one of them.

extracts [ lyrics, spoken word ] - selected at random.

His stick tip-tapping down the platform, sympathy and shock

the crowd parting. a bleak groan from a grown man

across the park, as fire cracks it's evil flicker.

pavements glisten, perspiring after another days 

heavy abuse...


a drunken shoe, ghosts dormant in a 

world gone crazy.

nightlife shovelled gleefully into

demanding hands...


gypsy souls drinking thimbles of wine

and scuffles down the street...

UnEven Street [ Poster ]

steve coel

the performances are shorter nowadays but the audience 

energy is still very high and positive.


steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

Enquiries: an1159publication@gmail.com

all that remained were words

all that remained were words

recently performed.

this was written around the same time as 'the house' 

and is published in weekend pass [ An 11.59 Publication ].

all that remained were words [ extracts ]

by 

steve coel

cherry hearts and shattered love

drinking whiskey from broken cups

in unlit rooms

newspaper on feet

keeping cold out and infected mind in...


a closely cropped wild beard

borders your face

and your eyes sing

of lost love and addiction...


next day you are dead

burned alive

in bushes

by children

and all that remains

are your words

1 - 2 - 3 - you can't kill me!

weekend pass

steve coel

tough to write.

tough to perform.

as it should always be.


steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

Enquiries: an 1159publication@gmail.com

The House

The House.

quite regularly, i get requests for copies of  performance 

pieces, samplers, gig recordings, pictures, posters 

and so forth.


the house was written way back when i lived in london 

as a response to many bad things happening at the time 

in bermondsey.


i'd strung together a series of ideas surrounding the 

changes being forced upon the community that had kept 

the area alive. 

money was moving in. 

real people were being shunted out. 


the shout was loud but few listened. 

but the people who listened were the people who mattered. 

to me.


the area now? closed doors. new history.


the house changes often, like it should. 

but today i still see the same thing happening over and over.

after a recent performance i received a request once again, 

for the house.

the house

by

steve coel

row after row after row

all completely empty.


once real people lived in them.

not now.

not anymore.


they're not nice houses.

the rooms are small, 

the stairs narrow,

and the walls

too thin.


tiny garden,

busy road,

busy and dangerous.


the house is cold, damp.

windows rot

water drips everywhere.

floorboards warp and sag.


the house is twenty years old.


[ from the fingers give lace [ 1997 ] - An 11.59 

Publication ]

house

steve coel

house

steve coel

The audience today is large. 

the shout, still loud, probably louder.


steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

Enqiries: an1159publication@gmail.com

Weekend Pass

Weekend Pass

steve coel

grey dismal sky

disgusted with seeping sighs

cellars of music and cheap meat

middle aged women and american sailors

careening  preening   screaming

angel of delight spewing

on damp carpeted staircases

pressing mobiles young children

glare at old timers clicking tongues

on fairground rides in broken jeans

these extracts from the experimental flash fiction 

performance piece  'Weekend Pass' were requested at the 

National Flash Fiction Day.


thanks to:

Quimbys in Chicago    www.quimbys.com

and 

Atomic Books in Baltimore     www.atomic books.com


steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

middle lane birds

middle lane birds

steve coel

recorded some of the soundtrack today. 

steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

middle lane birds

around church stretton - steve coel

along grassed up middle lane birds 

swoop as insects 

skirt and skit...

time held in place, bells

distant with summer smells brown

and crinkled blue.


steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

Steve Coel

steve coel

studio

steve coel

steve coel

in the studio, selecting pictures for Tin Collector.

steve coel

An 11.59 Publication 

 an1159publication.blogspot.com 

kildas song

kildas song.

[ written by a wall, on the island overlooking the ocean ]


quarrels echo across the yard towards a large watery 

gate 

grey. figures turn; hiding their hands and run, 

as animals scatter with the wind that howls 

down the hill


women gather, and men glare behind vast whiskers.

in photographs heavy locks 

fasten decisions about the outside.


steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

Microflashfiction - Steve Coel

Travel Notes.

...blasts on metal kits and clips of rubber on hackneyed 

streets...bottles drunk from damp fingers and hair touching 

woollen shoulders...toes shrunken in pebbles as lights 

flicker across pink water on grey boats and limp buildings...

flimsy machines collecting coins and live dreams from 

fragile bones, damp hands and nylon shoes.

steve coel

An 11.59 Publication

Frayed Trousers

Frayed Trousers

steve coel

it was always going to be the rings on his fingers. 

dead giveaway. 

every time.


not his car coat. not his appalling smile just before 

he lost it.

his cheap shoes, the shoes he liked a lot, and his too 

long frayed trousers, just seem to go unnoticed. 


strange that.


scam is what he would call it. is all.

people watch too much TV see.


so...just a few backhanders, a couple of meetings and 

the usual sealed envelope.

he didn't hurt anyone; anyone you'd care about anyways.


well, did he?


steve coel

Draft - Wolf Within [ 2016 ]

An 11.59 Publication

Where's my sister?

11.59 [ illustration ]

steve coel

Where's my sister?

steve coel

we see you through the laundrette window on the 

high street.

huddled tightly in your blanket you are trying to keep the 

cold from bones and wet hair.

you clasp a book in the dim, cheap light.

a single glove on your other hand, a hat limp against 

your shin.



you are; young yet old, in your city camouflage gazing at 

passing cars, coat muddied, trousers soiled.



"where's my sister?"

"where's my sister?"

you shout.


you are not a fool as later you stand at the pavement edge, 

forgetful, wracked with thoughts, demons and beer.


in framed windows of fire and TVs a city will still ignore 

this frightened man while small children continue to play 

and cause trouble before tea.

11.59 [ illustration ]

steve coel

An 11.59 Publication