Scribblings and squabblings

Don’t be funny!

Don’t be funny!

15th January 2018

It was funny how all his relationships were the same. More lines penned in ink than spoken words. More time to think, what to think, the ways in which her eyes he sinks and something new, something always new or unknown that gets shown or thrown. Something that drives him over the brink and brings him home alone.

He sat staring at the page of her as he wrote her up whilst her face flickered “Calling” on his cell phone. They were all like a diary, some carried over month to month whilst others were categorised by section or season all filled with the same charges of dishonesty and reason. Explanations of excuses and fabricated truth’s without use.

Lies and vicious smarts from scarlet whores with bitterness that rips at tender sores and beneath it all the loneliness hits to the point of admission. He just wants to hold all of them once more. The subtle fragrance and essence of fleetingly being complete. Cleaning the sheets, making excuses and admitting defeat.

A caricature of a man he was now obsolete, a boy at best for a man owns only his dignity and word.

She was different, unique. Fire from lips to hips with sarcastic purses non eclipsed spiritualised conversational trust she talked him to new heights whilst her eyes asked why? She knew the endings to a thousand stories, caressed him without warning and lingered in essence morning after morning.

He was a writer with nothing to say. He penned alone, solitary most days. She worked with hundreds over the course of a day. Her journey making the perfect pale skinned puzzle, a statuesque masterpiece masquerading as something he hoped to see.

There she lay four days later eloquent like a piano he’d play later, watched and admired she stretched a desire, exhaled to perspire. It mixed the crescendo higher and liar, she soul searched his kingdom, heart lurched his freedom, hip rolled his ego and swallowed all his words whole.

His Copy write was stolen in a contract of love. It was funny how all his relationships were the same.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Scribblings and squabblings

Did she Jump?

Did she Jump?

14th January 2018

He managed like an alcoholic goes from day to day. Some days clearer than others just trying to stay clean. He didn’t drink but the lager can ring’s still left stains around his eyes where tiredness crept in. His lazy arm lay across the pad with the pen mute as sleep trawled along his neck and into his mind letting his head fall sullenly.

She entered the bedroom thinking of nothing more than the shining top of her jewellery box and the last expression of her sleeping daughter when she saw him sat up asleep. It was the fourth time this week he’d done that and it reminded her briefly of her father. How he’d come home promising her the next big day out and then would have to sleep all day.

Her husband was different, she knew it and yet the memory plagued her briefly like toothache. She’d caught him last night going through the C.C.T.V shot by shot in slow motion looking for the perfect image of her. The arch of her neck, the turn of her jaw, the way the light catches her eyes through her hair. He may write to escape but he photographs to be free. The bed seemed to sink lower than usual under the weight of pressure and stress. She didn’t need to be psychic to know work was getting to him. After prying the pen from his fingers and placing a pillow behind his neck she dreamt of their last trip together, he didn’t.

He was a ringmaster at a circus in a blurry dream which smacked of symbolic realism. The monkeys at the front kept shouting to be heart and stealing the inflatable banana’s from the clients who cheered in admiration. Some complained but few and words appeared in his mind’s eye like daggers of blame.

A midget shot from a cannon in a poor advertising campaign. Tiny man flopped to the roar of several seals flapping their hands in poor applause. The midget was nevermore but transmogrified into a lawyer with a clipboard and those daggers they slipped some more.

He was the ringmaster, the advertiser, the cannon firer and the great despiser. He was the one to take them higher until the best he’d have to fire. The tightrope walked a clown with a bucket. His email#s buzzed in his pocket as off went two rockets. The popcorn filled room was immersed in the smell of wood chippings and caramel as the curtain fell and the clown with it.

Applause as the ringmaster caught him one-handed, the crows went wild! What was left for him to do but smile? It wasn’t part of the show yet what they didn’t know, they didn’t know.

Seconds past as the tent grew dark. The grand finale a successful spark. A roar filled the night as a solitary light fell then another and some more and a million more as well. The light’s themselves drowned out the spectacle behind the daunting roar. What else would you buy all those lights for? Inadequacy, a lack of finding, some education that was un-rewarding, either as the expectation and hype met a crescendo of light on top of light until out pounced a kitten. A tiny, small cub, well more like a pussy that had fallen in a tub.

A lion had been advertised like a McDonald’s burger we expected, well, more like a chocolate gateaux dessert. One foot in front of the other it stood proud on a block and then through the lights it started to rock. Side to side up and down then onto two feet it sat back like it was meeting it’s owner for the very first time.

Without any warning it pounced from that step onto another (Was this over yet?) As it grew and enlarged and morphed as it grew. It took on more and more the Hulk type of hue, until with eyes wide and no clue what to do the pussy looked down as Fiona from Shrek 2.

With a perplexed expression (and somewhat green too) Ringmaster asked himself “oh what could he do?”

He tried with relaxed, he attempted assertive, he questioned his faith “Did he really deserve this?” He started direct with a clear stern voice “You’ll send us all under! Why make this choice?” He growled and he whimpered like a cat in a trap. He couldn’t get his own way and he didn’t like that. “I am the boss! I am the law! I have the money, come hear me roar!”

They tickled his tummy, they praised his new coat they followed his tail with their eyes on his throat. Blind to the facts, blind to reaction, blind to the honesty that could save the occasion.

The crowd started to titter then falter and ran. What had he started? What had begun?

The ringmaster whipped a cat o nine tails. hE jabbed and he stabbed until his arms failed. He tried and he burnt, he blaster and boiled and he hurt until he realised all their plans were foiled.

He awoke to the phone buzzing along, whipping at ghosts from the dream of his song.”Morning boss” he said to a sunday man. Knowing he’s off but had to do what he can. The coffee smelt up the stairs as daughter and wife stood half spectral there. Hope in their eyes as new day to begin with dad and laughs no work a win/win. A day with just the three of them in “You can’t make it in?” They heard him say and knew he’d be at work today.

 

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

Any simularity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The same can be said for midgets, Ringmasters, Seals and Monkeys.

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It’s been a while…my desk has moved.

It’s been a while…my desk has moved.

27/01/2018

Since I last posted we’ve had Christmas and the last trimester to wage war and battle through. (Ok so I’ve done more of the waging war and less of the battling through but we’re all getting there.) My desk has vanished and been replaced by a shiny new baby change unit the second which is cool but we’re all scared of scratching it so I’m only allowed my laptop on my knee at the moment. (Don’t be deceived I am definitely the man of the house) It’s just I’m the man of the house when she’s not here. You thought all my provocative dominating style poetry was a genuine handsome, amazing, charismatic, powerful and real character didn’t you? You’d be right of course but she’s the boss and she knows it.

In other amazing news I’ve finally got to the stage where I’m not concerned anymore about telling everyone I’ve written my autobiography. A book that’s taken me over four years to complete! It’s finished, it’s edited, it’s been read at least eighteen million times by me and it’s been sent off to several publishers. (I’m new to the game bar a bit of self publishing so hey, slap your advice right down there in the comments section or if you really want to help just share this post.) It’s called “Checkmate” and I’ve had four come back with great comments but not perfect offers. I’ve yet to look into agents but we’ve decided we’ll give it a year and see what happens. The important thing for me is “I loved writing it and it is accomplishment” I hope one day you’ll enjoy reading it just as much.

Poetry (loosely termed) will always be my go to for instant gratification (In a writing sense!) because of my love of art therapy. The instant buzz of releasing all those emotions over the page. However I do write fiction and short stories too, I just tend to have a rhyming bug. I think it stems from having a stutter as a child where I couldn’t get words out at all after being mute for over a year (more in my book.) So now I tend to think in rhyme when it comes to writing which then makes it easier to describe events which hold emotional connections. I guess it removes some of the emotion from it by making it funny. (More on Art therapy, Nigel Mottram and my old issues later) for new issues of my work…. keep reading.

So the next few posts although will contain your ample dose of snippets, therapy and poetry. They’ll also include some random short stories and weird symbolic ramblings. Wait until baby two terms up, I’ll be sleep deprived, holding down a full-time job and updating my blog….aren’t you lucky?

– G.P Williamson.

 

 

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