Misogyny is haunting.

Misogyny is haunting.

Misogyny is haunting.
Be on your knees taunting.
Recalibrate your flaunting.
Two shakes of a cats’ tail and I’m scoring.
You’re purring over the hurts where the strap was burning, begging please and thankyou.
You’re learning.
The change in you, the true you that you never knew.
It’s occurring.
The wonderlust true blue and failed clues.
My misogyny is you.
Forbidden fruit is mine.
Can’t hide from the frozen insides where demons hide.
You’re heartbreak broken open, completely akimbo.
Wide eyed and enclosed in a tomb home.
My name on your soul.
We’re complete.
You’re whole.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Attention seekers.

Attention seekers.


They do it for achievers because they’re they’re great believers in the leavers and deceivers.
They shoot down far anything too left or right by their own blinkered short sights as they cough in the night, saying prayers because the NHS is sh*te.
The police will protect you, 90% are left too, poor pay, cuts in policing so much red tape real crime is increasing.
Relax sit back listen to some Susan Boyle all fairy shades, rose tints #FreeTommy shirts and LGBT prints, nothing’s changing.
This sh*t still stinks>
So many bullets flying, I can’t hear myself think.

© G.P Williamson 2018

A short post about the media whether social or otherwise. It always seems to be the most extreme or worst we concentrate on. People are like that they never say they had an average day. It was mostly the best or the worst ever. We watch dark desires and drag roses to inspirational statue poses and create purity for those we know. Then get drunk on stupidity and row.

Who are all these humans? What do they know?




Dirty poetry and the lack of humans

Dirty poetry and the lack of humans.


I didn’t understand the humans but I tried.
I battled in letters, a multicoloured alphabet of spaghetti o’s and alphabites, dark D’s and light Knights. (Yes I spelt that right.)
I drank Q’s and swallowed whole jars of Oreo’s and chocolate bugs.
Humans I’d understand their language was a drug.
I fell, tripped spanish and bastardised french.
I quilled latin and chinese melted on my tongue like a bad radish.
I hip hopped to happy rap whilst metal clipped and clapped to the encore of a badly spun track (these humans, they didn’t like that)
I found peace in a barn in a girl next door listening to Toby Keith whilst her head banged repeatedly against Leonard Cohen’s Book of Longing.
My mouth full of fickle lusts and moist belonging. (I still managed to fit a song in)
I don’t understand humans but I tried.
I dried tears from her eyes where the words of mourning rode chariots of death to hopes of cloning.
I ripped out her heart and put a megaphone in.
She screamed for eternity and nobody heard her heart beat.
Muted ears by Gary Jules Mad world.
Closer to the edge I trod and vanished into the chasm of her mind.
I didn’t understand humans,
But I tried.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Brown coat.

Brown coat.

23rd June 2018

They don’t stay, empty vessels sail away.

Picture frames of empty homes where echos grow and ghosts won’t even show.

Memories that I myself don’t know.

They don’t stay but they watch on judging through this empty window.

The grass continues to grow in a world I can’t touch in a place I don’t know.

They don’t stay, because they can’t go.

Fascinated by brown coat, thick and warm like December’s charm on some reluctant American dream street behind a movie set with visions of a woman I’ve never met.

Pulled tight warm all cosy then alarmed at her warm smile and vacant charm.

A piece of me no longer matters, her smile fides and bursts into full crow shatters.

Splinters of her engulf me like wolves toss bones for flesh wound woes.

I explode as realisation cures all my goals.

© G.P Williamson 2018


The hurts from church.

The hurts from church.


She couldn’t sleep for the hurts from church.

Splinters had dug deep from where her nails made skin weep.
She didn’t believe in herself.

She was in deep.

She sat stoney eyed amidst a hundred sheep who’s pain collide.

He stood in the pulpit.

Prompting their suicide unknowingly.

Another puppet of a mediocre society.

That night after prayer and hymn, evening song and lashing, the damn burst.

She grabbed a pen and started to write.

“I couldn’t sleep for the hurts of church”

© G.P Williamson 2018


Bottled it.

Bottled it.


He took the death from death and bottled it.

Bare handed he’d grabbed, left a scar that scabbed.

When it fell off it left a hole through the garden, through the ground, the earth, the planet, the ozone layer and into Eden.

The scab of death was fate deceiving.

A bottled death in a quartz jar held right by a dead man’s hand, the prized grip of a gypsy fighter.

The goo bubbled black for a million years and caused the death of  a million seers, mystics and idle mages.

He kissed a girl with petal lips and the ink turned to purple quick.

He smiled deaths heart a while as the earth healed thick.

He took death from death and bottled it.

© G.P Williamson 2018


They still mourn.

They still mourn.


A thousand monks couldn’t heal her.

Kneeling in prayer, filling the air a cloud of fire and love for the world to share.

Scooped up, segregated and sliced part by part.

fed to her mind, body and heart.

Kept her in limbo, no wish to let her go.

Diana for queen.

Where did that time go?

The world mourned.

Parliament scorned as the public sadly grieved, unarmed.

We knew loss like we felt the reasons of price and cost.

It was too much.

Worked on and through adventure restrained.

Still nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Feeble reality, a world that will never be the same.

© G.P Williamson 2018