Spinning penny

Spinning Penny


Ever heard a penny spin endlessly before coming to a flat stop?

That’s the longest death rattle, the silence before the drop.

Ever heard the silence tell you all of it’s bad dreams?

When she refuses to explain, the silence doesn’t talk, it screams.

Ever heard the rainbow come to a stop?

A plane cease to land?

An uneaten lollipop?

It pours with unheard trophies.

Soundless unclanging landings cushioned like the softest bed which you’ll never get to sleep in.

Ever heard them tell you “your friend has passed away?”

They think it was an accident.

He died yesterday.

The silence is the same.

The quietness profound.

When your partner dies.

The emptiness resounds.


© G.P Williamson 2017



Coffin Lid

Coffin Lid


I can’t be the one to close the coffin lid.

I can’t because I’ll remember your eyes.

The way they used to look at me, and how they look at me now in my mind’s eye when I’ve not even thought about closing yet for fear,

fear of penetrating the cling film lid of your beauty.

Beauty which held a building, made a flat a home an apartment a womb, mind a soul and a family a tomb.

Beauty which would blossom if you’d let us live.

Forget it.

Instead we make beds for empty spaces, time killing eclipses where legs don’t run races.

Sweet goodnights with no kisses and two faces.

I can’t close the lid for it holding the rose we proposed.

The butterfly kisses on cake facet mixes and wall’s we affixed, painting’s transfixed of photo’s – we exist!

Before we betwixt, half way down the list where now you resist the touch of my kiss.

I can’t close the lid.

Rise from the ashes!

This family bashing is causing alarm our foundation is crashing whilst you’re just relaxing, doesn’t it mean a thing?

This wedding ring?

Your pheonix won’t sing to your last hopeful king?

Suffocating in style the cover’s worthwhile.

The writing does suffer as I watch all the others, Where I seem to smother you, still do not bother.

Aaaargh! I’d growl to the ether if the spirits were kind but this is not our first time at rewind.

I’m better off unable.

A dead horse in a stable.

I’m here to be used but I’d rather be intune to a respected connection a belonging with you.

I can’t close the lid.

F*ck you I’m past caring.

My daughter’s my heartbeat and that life I am sharing.


© G.P Williamson 2017


I’d run

I’d run


I’d run after you if I thought for a second you’d acknowledge the race.

Stick to the rules and just run in a straight line so we could meet at the end.

It doesn’t matter who wins as long as we’re beside each other and together….

Who am I kidding? You gave up ages ago, I’m running solo.

There’s three times three lanes to this and I never wanted her to have to compete let alone keep up.

We will see you at the finish line.


© G.P Williamson 2017



Gnarly Hands

Gnarly hands.


Gone are the days of gazing upon life with adolescent glory and wonder.

I still know all the answers but today my hands are old.

They’ve been old for a while.

Gnarly tree’s with knotted limbs.

Smell like dirt, the earthy kind, click like kindling by the fireside.

Movement’s agile, I still believe I’m fast.

Faith VS fact – how long will that last?

Age has been kind, there’s space in the book for a few more lines.

The spine is weathered but legible.

I’m still fast.

My hands look old.


© G.P Williamson 2017



Honey, you taste so good.


Honey, you taste so good.


You spread lies like honey, crystal clear with flecks of the universe inside, balanced on your lips.

Promises of hope that taste devine.

You took your pound of flesh and insisted we would rhyme.

I don’t mind dancing to your tune if the sounds you made were mine, but the snowflakes on your fingertips they trace a different line.

I found you on the map of life, it tells me you’re right here.

I saw you in the photograps the mirror’s crystal clear.

I can’t see you in the past and so my future’s where you’ll be, play me for a fool in wild eternity.

I can’t collect the rainbows come lay with me a while.

I’ll run my fingers through your hair and beam right at your smile.

I can’t have you for forever so I draw the times that we collide.

You spread lies like honey, crystal clear with flecks of the universe on your lips.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Magenta Sorrow

Magenta Sorrow


Quell the thirst of a magenta sparrow.

Hawking back tomorrows sorrows.

Muddy puddle, wine glass lass.

Chugging back his lack of class.

Sipping deep the muddy bile, oily memories pacified.

Magnetic glass of darkest sheen.

Mirrors her magenta scene.

Awful taste that’s hard to swallow.

Not there today and gone tomorrow.


© G.P Williamson 2017






Cruelty grabs at me how it reaches from the darkness.

I say darkness but I mean ether, like the air is both there and not. Subliminal changes that change fear to tear drop.

The dot matrix to spot changes into blotch pages where the vision changes to fear rages as angels become demons and familiar faces, scream in rages at the same plagues name on your birth certificate, until you look and it metamorphoses into a name you’d long forgot.

Cruelty grabs at me somehow.

From a field of immediate vision like a spider dangling from a web, face caressing, heart racing, finger twitching, eye stretching, more manifesting place of indecision.

Run and panic, panic and run. The climbing changing ascension of spiders has just begun. Ankle to hip maintaining their grip. Toe to knee, layer upon layer three times three.

Suffocating in a rolling mass of eyes and legs as they consume and consume until there’s no more room.

Cruelty grabs at me somehow.

Two arms from the sides where I’m too slow to hide. They grab and I slide whilst my legs drag astride, the floor to the right where I tend to slide I can’t hide my freight as the day turns to night. It all becomes clear the ending is near as he laughs in my ear through the thick stench of fear.

My hand is forced down. I had to move around to the face of a clown.

Cruelty grabs at me somehow, from the darkness, from the ground up my ankles stuck.

Two thick hands covered in muck. I can’t move it’s just my luck.

Doing around fifty here comes that truck!

Cruelty grabs at me somehow.


© G.P Williamson 2017