Author Archives: No Tall Stories

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.

 


Gnarled

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.

Slowly.

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.

Dripping.

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.

Exasperated.

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.

 

 

 

 


I left.

I wrote a note.

It was on the table.

At least it was.

When I left.

 

I opened the door.

That was hard.

The night air helped.

A little.

 

Left foot. Then the right.

It’s strange when you

have to remember

how to walk.

 

The pavement was empty.

Except for the trees.

Just me.

And the trees.

 

My heart pounded.

My walk felt strange.

Alien.

When I left.

 

Right. Left.

Pounding. Ache.

Fear. Pain.

Right. Left.

 

I didn’t look back.

My pain grew.

But one thing I knew.

It was right that I left.

 

Published here; http://inkyneedles.com/2013/04/06/i-left-by-tim-kerton/


Pigeon Men of Soho

Soup, beards,

trolleys, and rain.

Wet benches, words,

cackles, some pain.

 

Crusts, crumbs,

birds, and rain.

Stares, glares,

fixations, disdain.

 

Flaps, flutters,

birdshit, and rain.

Puddles, splosh,

gurgles, a drain.

 

Kindness, sadness,

feeding, and rain.

Begging, swooping,

commonality attained.

 

Gratitude, satiety,

repletion, and rain.

Bowls, spoons,

a soup is insane.

 

Bags, carts,

trees, and rain.

Grey, sky,

looms the crane.

 

Rolled, fags,

tobacco, and rain.

Smoke, breath,

enlighten a brain.

 

Ponder, pause,

pack, and rain.

Walk, push,

I’m back once again.

 


You are a 93% match with Medusa.

I want a girl that

burns down churches,

shreds men’s souls,

turns me to stone.

 

I want a girl that

burns down churches,

impales my heart,

crushes my bones.

 

Her black locks,

more snake than hair.

Pain becomes tempting,

I no longer care.

 

Hold her gaze,

just for one breath.

I won’t look away,

I want this death.

 

I want a girl that

burns down churches,

flays my skin,

cripples my soul.

 

I want a girl that

burns down churches,

hangs my skull,

with the others she stole.

 

I want a girl that

burns down churches.