Scribblings and squabblings

What a ride..

What a ride..

14/10/2018

 

Evolution coin rings.

Straight off lets say a big thankyou to Anthony Bradford at Evolution coin rings for my two shilling coin with my mum’s birthdate on it! I promised an update weeks ago however life took on the magical form of a roller coaster and blasted me through oblivion the second the ring (not shown) was on my finger.

Although I’m not attributing my current house move, relationship momentum, school changes or endless pile of boxes to wade through directly to that ring going on my finger I can safely say it’s been a lot easier to manage looking down every so often and remembering why I plough through and on with the things that I do in the ways that I do.

https://www.facebook.com/evolutioncoinrings/
For everything from Shillings to Crowns.
He did inform me that their may be some tainting of the metal after the work was undertaken. You know what – Still as clean and shiny as the day I made the purchase.

In other news.
I’ve moved around a lot and not been phased in the slightest as an individual. Throw two kids a missus and a house crammed full of useless items into the mix, a short time frame to move and holding down a 40 hour job and something has to give. That’s meant no posts for quite a while and won’t be any for a little while longer I’m afraid.

The autobiography is being published, that decision has been made and we’ve had several people interested. At this stage I’m wanting to do more editing and make the book that much more alive and so I’ve held off from accepting offers. I think it can be better, and as much as I’m extremely grateful for all the interest considering I know how hard it is to get the work out there to begin with. I won’t be putting out the complete works until I’m sure it’s one hundred percent perfect. It’s taken over five years to go from hand written stage to typed up, edited and ready for publication and so, another year or so won’t do any harm whilst we settle here.

We’ve been so busy this past month alone it’s hard to keep up. During writing of this short post I’ve received a message to say a friend is coming over to pick up a fridge and I have Swale here sorting out the water as my daughter asking me repeatedly “When is Steve coming over?” and so life rolls into the next phase of achievement.

It’s as though the earth’s moving at thirty four thousand kilometers a second and I can feel every millimeter. I’ll return when the motion sickness stops.

G.P Williamson.

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Scribblings and squabblings

Espresso Fantaspacy.

Espresso Fantaspacy

24/05/18

It’s the espresso in the elixir.

The mixture in the minds fixture.

The one safe place in heavens grace amidst the array of displaced fantaspaces.

Yes I used fantaspacy.

They’re fantastical disgraces created by the heart.

Places your freedom allows you to be free with rules.

For a while at least.

Like working without tools to free the beast.

It’s emotional relapse, soul collapse, all loved up prolapse.

It’s writing from the mind without all caps.

It’s educated uneducation.

The rewinding progression of every nation.

It’s freedom of speech and personal progression.

I love to write, even when I keep me guessin.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems, Scribblings and squabblings

Rap games.

Rap games.

24/04/18

Rap has often been about calling a whore, starting a war or dragging out the boy next door.

I won’t give you the fight you’re looking for. I’ve been here before, won, laughed, blown the smoking gun and then felt daft.

There’s no winners to your game.

You’ll lose every time. For that reason I walk but be thankful I’m kind because keep up your shit – I’ll blow out your mind.

Ya’ll push me to snappin and try to control me, put me down gently, nice words to console me.

Huddle in masses all laugh’s because you act like I’m lonely.

Then ya’ll ask my input because you’re a one trick pony.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

 

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Parenting, Scribblings and squabblings

Find out if your name is on here!

Is that your name on here?

 

This page currently being updated.

 

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Scribblings and squabblings

Lord of the wedding rings.

Lord of the wedding rings.

15th January 2018

At first I figured he’d be a jeweller or a mad alchemist. The literal finder of that elixir which turns everything to gold. In face he was just a guy who spent the majority of his life in the shed banging pieces of metal together.

The ring from Lord of the rings must have been a wedding ring. Only marriage could cause that much trouble. He’d lift his head often and raise the rag to the light until it sparkled with perfection. Then he’d hit it agin for good luck like married men do the mistress.

You can spot them anywhere in their hoops and pearl necklaces. The upper class, the latter up the former. The bigger the hoop the bigger the required fulfilment. “Bitch!” He shouted under his breath a million times, until the air was fraught with tension, arguments, silent treatment and threats of who gets custody of the cat.

Several slammed doors and two broken plates, some torn clothes later and all was forgiven.

Back to the shed he’d been driven.

This we teach our children in a song we sang titled. “Dad’s lord of the wedding band”

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Scribblings and squabblings

They were never real

They were never real.

January 2018

She looked over the jeans he’d worn earlier that day thrown across a chair in the dark bedroom. “Really there” Said a ghostly apparition, like me or like you. She wasn’t there he couldn’t move, she wasn’t a known person. His heart ballooned until he moved and she was gone.

The jeans were alone although her eyes lingered like the echo of fingers down your spine. Like a clutched tight duvet in blood red wine. He shook, unable to cry, why? Why? Why?

The wardrobe shook with anticipation of things to come as he covered his head and the footsteps started to run.

They were always there like cobweb filled echo’s in the shadows like a thousand hunters aim their arrows, like spider legs above your ankles where the sensation speculates reason and questions doubt. Where you second guess who wants to shout but can’t breath as the air runs out.

The seconds pass, most likely your last, Gasp! You’re awake and again it’s watching but from a different position, a rambling vision, caucasian delusion, a sane minds mad intrusion, Awake and sweating in a cold rooms bedding.

Thumping pulse like a train wreck, steady.

Plagued by her curling her twirls as she flicks at the air. Cold spiral’s of delight knowing she isn’t there.

Cold water, a mirror and several gulps later.

Composed and calm in a relaxed state of repair.

Curled up and comfortable with only you there.

That’s when she’ll run her hand through your hair!

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Don’t be funny!

Don’t be funny!

15th January 2018

It was funny how all his relationships were the same. More lines penned in ink than spoken words. More time to think, what to think, the ways in which her eyes he sinks and something new, something always new or unknown that gets shown or thrown. Something that drives him over the brink and brings him home alone.

He sat staring at the page of her as he wrote her up whilst her face flickered “Calling” on his cell phone. They were all like a diary, some carried over month to month whilst others were categorised by section or season all filled with the same charges of dishonesty and reason. Explanations of excuses and fabricated truth’s without use.

Lies and vicious smarts from scarlet whores with bitterness that rips at tender sores and beneath it all the loneliness hits to the point of admission. He just wants to hold all of them once more. The subtle fragrance and essence of fleetingly being complete. Cleaning the sheets, making excuses and admitting defeat.

A caricature of a man he was now obsolete, a boy at best for a man owns only his dignity and word.

She was different, unique. Fire from lips to hips with sarcastic purses non eclipsed spiritualised conversational trust she talked him to new heights whilst her eyes asked why? She knew the endings to a thousand stories, caressed him without warning and lingered in essence morning after morning.

He was a writer with nothing to say. He penned alone, solitary most days. She worked with hundreds over the course of a day. Her journey making the perfect pale skinned puzzle, a statuesque masterpiece masquerading as something he hoped to see.

There she lay four days later eloquent like a piano he’d play later, watched and admired she stretched a desire, exhaled to perspire. It mixed the crescendo higher and liar, she soul searched his kingdom, heart lurched his freedom, hip rolled his ego and swallowed all his words whole.

His Copy write was stolen in a contract of love. It was funny how all his relationships were the same.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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