Dirty poetry and the lack of humans

Dirty poetry and the lack of humans.

12/06/2018

I didn’t understand the humans but I tried.
I battled in letters, a multicoloured alphabet of spaghetti o’s and alphabites, dark D’s and light Knights. (Yes I spelt that right.)
I drank Q’s and swallowed whole jars of Oreo’s and chocolate bugs.
Humans I’d understand their language was a drug.
I fell, tripped spanish and bastardised french.
I quilled latin and chinese melted on my tongue like a bad radish.
I hip hopped to happy rap whilst metal clipped and clapped to the encore of a badly spun track (these humans, they didn’t like that)
I found peace in a barn in a girl next door listening to Toby Keith whilst her head banged repeatedly against Leonard Cohen’s Book of Longing.
My mouth full of fickle lusts and moist belonging. (I still managed to fit a song in)
I don’t understand humans but I tried.
I dried tears from her eyes where the words of mourning rode chariots of death to hopes of cloning.
I ripped out her heart and put a megaphone in.
She screamed for eternity and nobody heard her heart beat.
Muted ears by Gary Jules Mad world.
Closer to the edge I trod and vanished into the chasm of her mind.
I didn’t understand humans,
But I tried.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Advertisements

It’s a good morning.

It’s a good morning.

06/06/18

Sweeps in as a million butterfly fixtures.
Smiles like a totalitarian love elixir.
The potion of trust, calm and soothing.
A palm of antiquity, suave, alluring.
Devil may care, it’s you I’m charming.
Heartbeats and warm blood.
Heat spots, seeing red dots, the butterflies won’t stop and it’s a good morning.

36 degrees outside and you’re all running rampant and agile at a million miles inside my mind.
Don’t do this, I’m falling, the nothing is calling.
A corrupt void with no warning.
HoHoHo because Christmas is coming on a bad summer morning.

© G.P Williamson 2018 < hit for Instagram.

 

Brown tablecloth.

Brown tablecloth.

03 July 2018

Reasons in sauce.

Written of course in the diners remorse.
A fine word, harsh word, badly placed hand and she ran all out.
That’s it, just up and gone.
Arched eyebrow at a table neighbour
Flicked the bill at a tight lipped waiter
I’ll be sleeping on the sofa later.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes.
3rd July 2018

There’s twenty minutes until the sky’s the limit.
until we pretend we’re not here again,
Listening to dribbling, drabbling men all bawling how it was always them.
A war they never lived.
A goal they never scored.
A life they never lived.
A girl they all adored.
Her name was Grace to all men because it fit perfectly, like they desired.
Whatever pose she chose they perspired.
She reaped what they sewed.
No love, no place where babies grow.
Just Grace.
Painful and slow.
Here as one naked completely.
They never knew her but they loved her discreetly.

© G.P Williamson 2018

On the bench by a wall.

On the bench by a wall.

03/06/2018

All clotted cream hips in sunscreen with light raspberry lips.
There’s an elegance in place with the sun’s rays and my mind conjures disgrace after disgrace.
Walking pace, slowly skirt blows consoles me, sitting on a warm rock reading, all alone and homely. How I allow your visions to vanish, ebb and control me.
I see all in the reality of miraculous passion without question. You’re my equal and opposite obsession.
You don’t reply to my mute expression.
Brown eye girl.
Shameful blessing.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Interestingly. (three short poems)

Interestingly.

28th June 2018

Interestingly he tries harder that most I’ve met.
There for her family, pays life out in sweat.
Gives all he’s got and still finds time for regret.
Interestingly he tries harder than most I’ve met.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

Sleep.

28th June 2018

Maxed out sleep with runny eyes.
Crying wolf where bedclothes lie.
Circular seasons, circular lives.
A cat o nine tails and a cat o nine wives.
Masked men who steal and plunder.
Her body more oft than her mind
The same woes are taken and tread on the same worried of woman and wine.
maxed out sleep with runny eyes.
Crying wolf where bedclothes lie.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

Blood
03/06/2018

She hussels for attention like a scratching beaver trying to climb a high shore line.
She hurts herself, and me this time.
The magpies don’t seem to mind.
My luck hasn’t changed.
I’d blame them completely.
Her wingspan cools and soothes me briefly, too brielfy.
So much I crave her touch.
How to reach those heights without flight, how should I make good red lips of blood?
She flows through me discreetly.
I knew she would.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

Name that pill.

Name that pill.

28th June 2018

It took just one pill to understand the world in totality.
The mediocre conundrum of our own sanity.
The reasons we take woman for wife.
The reasons for love.
The meaning of live.
Progression to trust, society a must.
The very reason of universe from dust.
One solitary pill concoction made from the lips of a brown eyes goddess, a robin’s last breath,
A church bells chime at a quarter to nine.
The last suppers’ last drop of wine.
A murdered womans motherhood the hands of a bludgeoned father mixed within the salty seas of another tear filled daughter.
It took just one pull to understand the world in totality.

© G.P Williamson 2018