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

Graphic, poems

She cries when I laugh

She cries when I laugh


She cries when I laugh but doesn’t hear my screams.

Torments all my demons without knowing what I’ve seen.

I hear her cackles fill the night from underneath my bed.

I whisper “Is that you?” to the emptiness inside my head.

The rocking chair sways empty, idly back and forth.

She turns to face me smiling and I’m hit with another curse.

My blood doesn’t curdle, it’s thicker than that and yet I still don’t know how to react.

The hairs on my neck march to their own band to wage war on a foe nobody had planned.

The Cobwebs on my face write of hope and glory.

The tears I hold back tell a different story.

She rattles her glass and out pops an eye as the moon falls on down when I say goodbye.


Copyright G.P Williamson 2017

Graphic, poems

Mustiness (Graphic)

Mustiness (Graphic)


There’s a mustiness contained within his coat from the congealed water.

I can smell it’s taste when he’s close enough to breath on me.

He doesn’t exactly breath, like his eyes don’t exactly see, as much as he’s just there, stationary, waiting.

Waiting for an action, a movement, a hair to fall out of place or the silent click of an opening jaw  about to scream before he reacts.

Curtains close and a painful silence ensues.

You better hope you’re not silent.

There’s a rise in every moved hip, trembling lip or sliding slip that’s just another excuse to hit.

Did you bite your lip after he’d spit?

Blood droplets down pale faces.

Make up all sold and brought.

You’re innocent, You’re someone daughter.

There’s a mustiness contained within his coat from the congealed water.


© G.P Williamson 2017