Graphic, poems, Short poems

My Disturbia.

My Disturbia.


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

Graphic, poems

Ominous ending.

Ominous ending


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

Graphic, poems

Lake feet


Lake feet


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

Graphic, poems

She couldn’t die.

She couldn’t die.


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

Graphic, poems

Kill your darlings. (Graphic)

Kill your darlings.


His eyes rolled back a clear two seconds after the bullet tore through his chest.

By through I mean into the front through the chest turning and churning and then just blowing the back clean out like a visual megaphone shout.

A megaphone rattled with a clear-cut reply – he’s out.

He was a father, a worker, a grafter, a soldier, an author, he’d fathered a daughter.

A warrior, a trooper, the main part of a group.

The class clown, the cheer us on one. the nice word for anyone.

The last penny guy.

The man I just watched die.

Stood there all helpless as back rolled his eyes.

Crimson hadn’t landed when I turned and disbanded.

Arms by my sides, huge weight realised.

The night train I’d ride without him by my side.

You’d meet me at Euston at the end of the bridge.

You knew what I needed – you’re humor always the best.

You’re eyes rolled back a clear two seconds after …. the bullet tore through your chest.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Graphic, poems

Car lady

Car Lady


I don’t recall which came first the impact or the thud.

I don’t know if I couldn’t see first or I couldn’t hear but

I remember the blood.

It’s fabric.

The way it’s cells marshalled all over my leg,

led by little red and white generals heading to a pointless funeral.


It’s the little things you remember when shock hits.

She was wearing a cream bra. I could see it through her loose fit.

She’d tried to steer away, her lip she’d bit.

I can’t not see her – In my head she sits.

Her eyes are blue and catch mine briefly.

I spin after the impact and leave the ground beneath me.

There’s a crunch and she’s gone as the car spins and nothing rhymes anymore.

I want to go back to seeing her face the way it was before.

Their was a bloody mist of rain where I’d fell.

Scattered raindrops of  me everywhere.

Quite poetic for a major injustice.

Six months later I’d still be on crutches.

They wanted me to sit because I couldn’t stand.

People stopped to watch.

It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t planned.

They pulled her out.

I can still hear the screeching metal.

Smell the rubber and see the flashing lights.

It wasn’t quite day and it wasn’t quite night.

Therapy was offered.

I explained I wasn’t bothered by anything apart from her lack of movement,

like she’d somehow lost a light.

They told me it would pass in time,

but she still talks to me at night.

Copyright G.P WIlliamson 2017

Graphic, poems, Short poems

Tormented November

Tormented November


She rode the night like November depended on her torment.

Her pale thighs broke the darkness in rhythmic unison like shooting stars across a night sky.

The velvet shoes glistened softly in the moonlight as the lace curtain drifted softly in the cool air.

A young man’s fantasy vanished as it became a reality.

Before the dawn, the age of man was born.


© G.P Williamson 2017