Graphic, poems

Rough love.

Rough love.

07/05/18

Like a lyre I hear him calling through the trees.

An echo of desire a seething to be free.

A calling from the beastville to the place between my knees.

I hear him calling from the shadows all around.

I feel him in the tremors through the roots up in the ground.

They said he’d make the earth move.

Maybe I was not awake?

This wasn’t just a tremor.

It’s a f*cking big mistake.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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Graphic

Making an impression.

Making an impression.

07/05/18

He arrived with the smell of money wafting through the doorway before him like air currents on a summers day.

It wasn’t the crisp suit or clean shaven expression that made the distinct powerful impression.

It wasn’t the gold rimmed Porsche or the way just nothing sagged.

No, it was the severed head he carried beside him in a clear bag.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Graphic, Short poems

Ghost pages and angelic faces.

Ghost pages and angelic faces.

18/04/18

The turning page got stuck halfway and lay there in mid air.

Held by ghost hands I’d not planned for a fine spectacle and quick sand.

I sank deeply and rapid like quitting a place that’s sliding beneath a bin lid. Foretold from a story that grows old.

Roots which hold folds in the memories alcoves.

It’s where the doves go to rest and coo.

It’s a turned page that got stuck halfway through.

The angelic faces are kind of creepy too.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Graphic, poems, Short poems

My Disturbia.

My Disturbia.

24/11/17

You’re my Disturbia.

I’m still hurting.

Metamorphose into a dragon and kick the world hurling.

Cascaded dizziness I can’t stop.

I’m still swirling.

Head over heels has a new motion.

I’m burning.

Corrosive anticipation from your tearful eyes and blood red lips.

I wait patiently – fingertips to fingertips.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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Graphic, poems

Ominous ending.

Ominous ending

16/11/13

I watch you at the kitchen.

From beneath my little peaked hat.

You’re drying up the dishes.

I have your cell phone in my pack.

I’m leaning on the lamp post.

It’s cold but I don’t feel.

You’re calling you your friends.

Last nights wounds are yet to heal.

I’m opposite the pub.

An ideal public place.

You’re coming down the stairs.

A perfect darkened place.

Dressed just as you left me.

Yet a little worse for wear.

A little white dress with a red ribbon in your hair.

Shoes clap down the alleyway.

I’m there without a sound.

You pick up pace hypnotically but don’t even look around.

Close enough to see the sweat on your neck.

A chain you didn’t have on this morning.

I reach out a hair palm and you jump in fear and warning.

 

“You left this at my place”

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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Graphic, poems

Lake feet

ghostchickenwire

Lake feet

30/10/17

She stood in the lake and pondered.

What kind of man he’d be?

Fishing with the sticklebacks on boats just made for three?

Crying over whiskey on nights out with the girls?

Hold her with the strength that a soldier shows his girl.

Sing her deep sweet songs with his fingers in her curls.

She stood in the lake and pondered the kind of man he’d be.

She waited day and night for him to set her free.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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Graphic, poems

She couldn’t die.

She couldn’t die.

24/10/17

She couldn’t die.

She’d tried.

She’d cried.

She’d rode away on horseback, climbed mountains and caved until the rain drowned her again and again and again.

She had smoke-filled octopus men to take her mind from him to them and she’d hid.

She’d cried.

She’d tried.

She couldn’t die.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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