Author Archives: No Tall Stories

The Drunken Junk



His thin brittle anger broke free again.

Sharp shards of pain pushed out.

I silently encouraged him.

Entertain me.  Please.

I’m bored.

Opening sunny gates, we drift…



Our lives stay the same.

Tomorrow we die.

Tell me one lie.

One lie.


Overhanging trees undermined our cynicism.

Too beautiful.

Too nice.

For us.

Spit and curse for me.

Poison my day.

bloody boatman.


Our lives stay the same.

Tomorrow we die.

Tell me one lie.

One lie.


My violence was swift.

Cunning. Nasty.

He saw nothing.

Felt everything.

Steel  glanced off bone.

Flesh fell away.

bloody boatman.


Our lives stay the same.

Tomorrow we die.

Tell me one lie.

One lie.


Drifting now.

Lighter. Sweeter.

Awash with blood.

The deck was slippery.

One heave.

His splash made me chuckle.

bloody boatman.






The Broken Verb

Tonight at 8pm UK time The Broken verb spoken word poetry show is on the theme of ‘Bankers’. Thank you to everyone who contributed their poems and time.


Click to here listen.


If you miss the scheduled time the show will be saved in the archives.









I wanted to see what was happening.

Switched the TV to CNN Turk.

A penguin documentary filled my screen.

While CNN International was live on the scene.


We are all penguins

But some more than others.

Police brutality unites

Children and mothers.


Bring us your tear gas,

Some water from your cannon

The camera goes both ways

We will force you to re-examine


Your brutal theft of all we hold dear

Your violence, your hate, your culture of fear.

Your encroachment upon our secular state

Your attempt to undermine us. Alienate.


This park is a symbol

 One of many last stands

I pity you having to watch

As our movement expands


This isn’t about one country

One city, one town

This is global resistance

And we’re not backing down

Our Freedom of expression,

Our Freedom of assembly

Our Freedom of press

Our right to expect nothing less


You have taken our liberty

Our sight and our lives

Now sit back and watch

As your world crumbles and dies.


Because we’re not resting until

You tumble from power

Until you beg for forgiveness

Hour after hour


We are all penguins

But some more than others.

Police brutality unites

Children and mothers.

A murder of prose, a pride of lines..

Collective noun

for a collection of nouns?

Underground buses

and washed up towns.


Opened up and ruined, I let the wind in.

Rich man vs. poor man, this old beggar will win.


Understand that dynamic.

Un-sink our Titanic.

Our destruction designed it.

My cruel mistress confined it.


Shut down and smashed, I lock the rain out.

Roof vs. sky, that old beggar has clout.


Follow your lead?

Unlock my greed?

Fuck you. Your creed.

Your unnecessary need.


Your words have a choice.

They represent your voice.

But neither adhere

to the things we hold dear.


Closed in and battered, I let the sun shine.

Conflict vs. passion, one old beggar’s divine.


Wine in my glass.

Death on my plate.

I’d rather die ten years too early.

Than ten minutes too late.


Un-Tory this benefit, un-bonus my bank.

Un-vomit the single malt whisky you drank.


You do none of this of course.

In fact it gets worse.

Nothing to say ‘cept a warning or curse.


Scrawled in sick on the tube station floor.

Mind the gap.

Mind the gap.

Mind the gap between the rich and the poor.


A Sniffing Nod

busThe sniffing bus

was sniffing late,

my oyster card

was past its date.

My pockets spewed

the change I’d begged.

I slammed it down

on the drivers ledge.

He took off roaring

I stumbled ‘n’ fell

This sniffing day

is going to hell.

I picked myself up

and found the seat.

This one came with

something to eat.

A kebabs carcass

adorned the cloth.

The tomato tempting

but I swept it off.

Onto the floor

it bumped

and rolled

Next stop;

the street of Old.

Hoxton bonnets,

fixie bikes,

twitter feeds

and facebook likes.

GPS your every move,

some location that

we all approve.

Post a photo

of your sniffing lunch.

Grated ice on

your sniffing punch.

I feel empty,

I wonder why.

My sniffing soul

just kissed the sky.



Like the dead, knotted branch

that threatened everything below it.

She rolled paper with tobacco,

licked and rolled the thing.

Like it was nothing.

I heard the wind, it whispered again.

The whisper before the roar.

A flick, a flame, and a snap.

Dark again.

Apart from the ashy glow.

And the half lit smoke curls

that disappeared.


I tried to think of something.

To say something.

But nothing came.

I could feel her stare

through our night.

Her lips drew again on the cigarette.

Glow, smoke, the impatience in her eyes

reflected the ember.

Smoky anger now.

Still nothing.

I can say nothing.

I let the moment pass.

Our moment pass.

One more glow on the ember.

Resilient disappointment gave

way to pity.

She turned and walked away.

How should I know

what time it is?


Popcorn Stare

I could have looked away.

But it would still have happened.

He had mistimed his suited, leather brogue-d jog.

Quite badly.

The swelling gutter puddle had

trouble on its mind.

Buses are faster these days.

I think that’s what threw him off.

The speed.

He drew level with the black water.

Jogging, hesitating, now sprinting.

The bus arrived on time.

The soaking could not have been more.

Almost as if he wanted it.

If he had, he could not have timed it better.

Even his hat was wet.


He stopped sprinting.

Stood still.

Turned and looked at the big red bus now long gone.

He held his hands out to the side.

Looked down at himself.


A look to the sky.

A religious man, I thought.

Perhaps, no longer.

Maybe that soaking was the last straw.

That shattered his faith.

God hates me, he thought.

I couldn’t be wetter and now

I don’t even have God.

I felt bad that part of me

enjoyed his dilemma.

If he had avoided the soaking would

he still be happy with God?

Was he ever?

Was this all that was ever standing inbetween

this man and his faith in the almighty?

A large puddle and a bus?

A drenched suit and hat?

Perhaps he was just cursing the rain clouds?

This is a good place to sit, I thought.

I’ll get another pint.