Passive aggressive.

Passive aggressive

They light fantabulous these glorious aspiration hunters.
They light the stage and glow all paths.
A spotlight of future epitaphs.
They hone the night sky.
Bright light in a babys eyes.
They hold tight and record old lies.
Then clutch on like stalagmites.
Growing forth despite me, unwavering diligently.
Until a part of the soul, that’s frightening.
I light fantabulous then glorious apirations I hunt!
Passive aggressive.
A secular front.

© G.P Williamson 2019

Also writing under “Cursed Rider” on

poems, Short poems

Braking and Breaking.

Braking and Breaking.

There’s something to be said for that split second between braking and breaking.
When at nearly thirty you spot her face through the car window like she’s there.
Both next to you and not.
The last face you’ll have the chance to, wish you, forgot.
It happens all at once.
Instinct to swear, to swerve, to move as the back wheel rides a curb.
You jabberwocky around, fishtail and slant a desire to react more but just can’t.
Then the storm has gone but feels like the eye.
The face vanished but something’s left behind and you’re fine.
For a while.
A while between braking and breaking.

© G.P Williamson 2019


A jibe at hipocrisy.

A jibe at hypocrisy.

Oh the hilarity at your calamity.
Belly laughs jovially like jelly beans tipped over me.
It’s only you that fails to see, you’ll wait for eternity.
I’d like to sing a different song.
I’d love to think I’d once be wrong,
but again you’ll have to fight and still you’ll sleep alone at night.
He never gives you any rights and so will never hold you like,
the way he sure does hold his wife.
When he looks up in her eyes and fills her with a thousand lies.
One day she will realise with years of unbridled hate that he caused such a bad state,
Because you chose to lie in wait.
Then wait then if you really must but don’t do it in the name of love.
Neither of you are worthy of the hands of time that turn to dust.

© G.P Williamson 2018







The radios echo & other love goals.

The radios echo and other love goals.
29th July 2018

The radio goes and it’s my voice.
A debate, some farce or other.
There’s a time we could have bothered.
We never did and it’s all over.
You sigh through a candlelit window>
Where’s that time go? I should know and we don’t.
Bespoke fonts and trained daughters.
Loving wives and guilty fathers.
Nothing happened, the plans weren’t watered,
So nothing grows, nothing alters.
I understand the illusion, nothing’s right we couldn’t believe in,
So no start, no grieving.
You’ll smile that kindness wide too.
Vulnerable to hide looks and know you did the right thing.
Spark up a Hamlet and stroll home alone as some poor soul starts to sing about love’s goals.
© G.P Williamson 2018


Love don’t last.

Love don’t last.
29th July 2018

Yesterday when people made the music of our past.
Yesterday we loved for them as we knew love don’t last.
Yesterday when people played no such silly games when walk with me meant you come home to stay.
Yesterday, oh yesterday.

Kirby streets and bulldog wars,
Give that girl your coat.
Yesterday’s when curtains twitch
“She’s got another bloke”
There’s always one and ours was her
three doors down all knocked up furs.
Yesterdays were queer as folk and yes,
“She’s got another bloke”

Yesterdays when fear was fake and death weren’t all the news.
Yesterdays I loved your eyes and it’s still a brand new world.
Yesterdays when people made the music of our past.
Yesterday we loved for then as we knew love don’t last.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Two snakes.

Two snakes.
29th July 2018


I dreamt you brought two snakes home.
One as a pet and another accidentally in your handbag.
The pet did what you intended.
It lunged and gnawed at my face.
Ridiculed and marked, stained I was disgraced.
I removed the offending creature, I set it up a home.
I gave him water, bedding, now you two can be alone.
The other slumbers silently. I know he’s somewhere near.
Where exactly I am not quite clear.
He could be over there, hidden in my fears.
Covered in a blanked stitched from an angels tears.

© G.P Williamson 2018

poems, Tom Orrow

Flirting (Short graphic) – Tom Orrow.

(Short graphic)
15th July.

You hurt me.
You flirt see.
inside my veins curtly.
Like you curtsey with a switch razor.
Chop my calves up to eat later.
Like you live for my flavour.
You hurt me.
Skin deep.
little Bo peep doing bad things to sheep.
Increasing the fleece to smother the beast.
So the caffeine increases whilst we’re on the decrease.
You hurt me.
Tom Orrow bitter taste.
Sour pork.
Dark wonder.
Poisoned heart.
Want to know more?
Let’s take a walk

© G.P Williamson 2018