Above all else.
10/06/2018
My hands feel their way.
They don’t need you for me to know my place.
My tongue doesn’t need you for me to know what I dislike.
My diary doesn’t need you to fill it in.
My heart doesn’t need you for me to love myself.
I want you.
I don’t need you.
Above all else.
Am I writing right?
09/06/2018
If you don’t bleed a little, feel a tickle.
Find a dismembered arm to pickle or be horrified with a nervous giggle.
Just a little.
Then I’m not writing right.
If you’re not scared you’re not all there, that these voices are real and really aren’t fair.
That it is your fault and no you can’t.
Then I’m not writing right.
If I can’t turn day to night, love to spite, oxygen to airtight then dammit I’m not writing right.
If you’re not on your knees for faith or pleasing, if I’m not painting pictures or it’s not me you’re releasing then I’m not fulfilling my prophecy.
I’m not writing right.
If I pluck out an eye that refuses to cry whilst you dry your tears on a solitary candle.
If I manage the light to pass into night as you don’t awake tomorrow.
Am I doing this right?
I don’t know how to write.
This is enough come a voice from above that you say what you say if you write what you love then that is enough!
I think that’s how you write.
© G.P Williamson 2018 < — hit for Instagram.
How I bind thee.
09/06/18
A lack of ropes keeps me tied up or rather it doesn’t as the confusion binds me.
Restless and endless I notch and churn.
Dispondant, displacent, uncharacteristically warm.
A lack of ropes and still you fall for my charm.
A short tale of Tom Orrow and that girl from the barn.
Disgraceful.
07/6/2018
The disgraceful face of an angel rains manicures to pedestal faces.
Gives more than he takes and races eagles in second place.
She watches you win and smiles a rue truth.
Divine inspiration.
A pulled tooth.
Capitulate arbitrarily, leave me alone unnecessarily.
Rise with ambiguity and take your packed cases.
The disgraceful face of an angel rains manicures to pedestal faces.
You lay like sarcophagus that struts its stuff when stuck in a rut.
Stop screaming and accept my love.
My Supernatural apparition
08/06/2018
I’ve tried remorseful apologies.
Forgiving eulogies and bagpipes with a twenty-four gun salute.
I’ve tried candles and wire.
Our old songs and no sunshine.
A few old lines at a time with fire.
I’ve tried the demonic press, the Ouija and a thousand rounds of pure duress to the back and the head and I confess.
My love for you has beyond transgressed.
Of this leaves the deepest impression,
You’re my favourite superstition.
The square table in an old box.
07/06/18
Not to be rude or misconstrued but hypocrisy’s alive like the darkness in her eyes.
I’d cry for her healing.
Give for her believing if she’d try and not be leaving, but you all, you all she IS deceiving.
Find me wrong and whatnot I declare war on thee Sir Galahad.
I find it no less appropriate nor are no less a man!
May the incidents of being poor smite you.
May our smiles and the tides of the flesh unite you.
For I am the coffer of lovers and you my dear are the lover of coffers.
© G.P Williamson 2018 <– Hit for Instagram.
No choice in your voice.
07/06/18
You’re the aphrodisiac they never told me about.
The one you don’t ingest but gets in there anyway.
Somehow with vicinity the pores pen and doors of the mind crumble like negativity unrumbles and chords of desire pull taut.
Like I’m centre stage and you’re the consort I never knew existed.
Like Brexit and the millionaires who secretly enlisted.
The testosterone forgets home and again I’m single and alone in your voice.
I have no choice.
I have no choice.
© G.P Williamson 2018 <– Hit for Instagram.
