poems

That’s not a man

That’s not a man

19/07/17

Bad mouthing – real mature.

Like the MCcoys man with a manicure and fake tan.

That’s not a real man.

That’s jelousy, I dare say it.

Admittance, that’s the stereotype of the person I wish I’d been,

Someone they’d seen, famous not just a ghost in the machine.

Write parrallels where truth’s smell and I can’t tell if I’m doing well as I slip deeper down one more step to hell.

No ego! Remove that voice.

It’s the curse that causes the hearse to reverse, back up and reverse again.

You should be the mature one.

There’s only memories of things you’ve done not photograph’s.

Each breath should be like your last.

Make it, make it last.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

That’s my law

That’s my law.

20/07/2017

My friends need to take a rest, all this coming back from the dead’s causing too much stress.

I feel them pushing at the curtain, swearing and hurting.

Persuasive with jelousy in a hierachy of unstable chemistry, hoping to metamorphose and bloom outside the kaboom.

The circle of infinity, circle of life, circle of trouble and strife ties knots around my brains heart like ringworm for my mind.

The doctors looked but couldn’t see, I didn’t want to find.

No reflection for myself no fear to face.

No punishment, no faith in place and I’m scared.

Scared to accept a taste of tranquility for losing too much before.

I fear love and that’s my law.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Stopping short

Stopping short

06/06/2017

A really short poem who’s lead up cascades, rises, ranges to chaotic exchanges, paraphrases the angelic faces of teenage lace in the empty spaces of every religious case. Each obsurd harsh word from man to bird, who’s crescendo aches with time complaints of chip shops with no fish and dried up paint, but doesn’t wait for finality and stops without frivality.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

 

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poems

That bloody clock

That bloody clock

06/06/2017

Bleeding with tomorrow’s promises.

The pages slowly creep closed.

Creaking like the soft spaces between a broken grandfather clock’s chimes.

I cease to hear them as they die down.

Unless they want something of course.

Then the blood stains are back to clear the ink and the clock is more than punctual.

Yet between is a broken record.

Failure to change the tune.

Turn over a new leaf.

Leave them to burn.

Perhaps I am the culprit.

Perhaps it’s me bleeding with tomorrow’s promises.

Perhaps there’s less ticking left in my clock.

Perhaps there’s no words left in my…..

 

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Bathroom

Bathroom

07/06/2017

Steam from the bathroom billows beneath the doorway.

Smell of incense mixed with some soaped concoction.

She’s brushed up on her leg’s ability in preperation for tonights nobility.

I’ll watch her leave.

My favourite addiction.

She left the varnish out again.

Red and some pot of something cream.

It matched her dress.

Last week it was green.

I remember the black tights, patchwork mesh riding to the height’s of her theighs.

I couldn’t divert my eyes.

Tonight more regal and clear cut.

More Marilyn Monroe than horny slut.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

Remember him

Remember him

12/07/2017

Remember the boy who couldn’t show sorrow.

Random acts of kindness his short life brought a nation.

Together sacrificed this love that’s God’s creation.

Remember the authorities did all they could to stop the flow of this angel’s blood.

Ormand street as it shall now be known, for the Great shall always forever have fallen.

Powerful elixirs all over the world.

He gave to our lives and education, highlighted poor morals and united the nations.

Squabbles held dear should forever become lose.

Shouldn’t this life at least highlight the true value of cost?

I’ll not speak his name for it’s more hallowed than faith.

In my country I’m humbled but tonight I’m disgraced.

These parents are legends and I’m filled with regret that their awful struggle is not over yet.

I’m broken all over and all open and wide, through the voice of our people who hold him dear inside.

We cry as a people.

We cry as a nation.

We cry as humanity.

He’s our salvation.

Highlight’s who we really are and the cruelty of our law.

No man is mothered by the court.

We are government from the womb.

Parental ties, one union, efficient etiquette.

No law can beat the love of man.

The war isn’t over yet.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

Heavy chimes

Heavy Chimes

07/06/17

It’s time which ticks by.

Heavy chimes like thick oily hollow eyes.

Black dye as tears cry.

Slowly falling ticking by.

 

Pools of ink, raising deep.

Imagination starts to sink.

Gloopy mud holding grip.

Can’t look away, waiting to slip.

 

She’s born and is at nursery.

She’s grown and won’t get off the phone.

Everything’s a secret and now she’s leaving home.

 

It’s time which ticks by.

Heavy chimes like thick oily hollow eyes.

Black dye as tears cry.

Slowly falling, ticking by.

 

Copyright G.P Williamson 2017

 

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