Short poems

An unusual darkness.

An unusual darkness.


I’ve had an unusual life where I got to meet a million people I didn’t like in ways I didn’t want.

People who made me listen to nonsense who forced opinion and blurred the lines between logic and reason.

People who tried to manipulate me in my own hunting season.

They wonder why it’s them now in my sights.


© G.P Williamson 2018



The price of living.

The price of living.


The price of living.


Who created this indelible blot?

How did we reach this state?

The cost of having food on your plate.

Not the “quality” of the food which should always be deemed.

But the food itself.

Life can’t be redeemed.

The price of living.


The carry cot.

The water rates.

Camping rights.

The work we create.

The U.K can’t afford it’s plate.

Sitting at the big table with all these posh nobs and plush cushions.

Sat on hessian sacks with Polish vodka and dodgy russians.

Spiked orange from Aldi with a flat pack Ikea parody and a cap that screams “War” as we request scraps like Oliver’s law.

The price of living.


That which should have been a unified bind of committed lines.

An oath between our binding ties has become a stew of delicious lies.

We’ll taste and tumble on our poisoned ensemble and you’ll watch the price of our tears dry with no receipt.

No refunds.


You’ll charge us indiscreetly.

The price of living.


We’ll explain it to our children like we do cruelty.

Like famine and how some people don’t have enough.

That sharing is kind but to take care of yourself first.

That you’re good enough to deserve everything but should be kind enough to give it away.

That’s how this circle of poverty and neglect finds a way to fund and portray.

The price of living.


© G.P Williamson 2018


I guess.

I guess.


I guess I’m mad because there’s not enough time for me to watch your grandchildren’s grandchildren grow old.

I know that’s nature.It’s not wrong.

I guess I’m mad, but I’m strong. You don’t have any time at all and here we are twenty-six years on.

A father, a friend, a lover, a son. Figuratively speaking what have you done?

You have no time. The sun’s not shone.

I guess I’m mad time’s not like cake. I can’t make more.

My slices you can’t take.

It’s probably for the best. I can’t bake.

I guess I’m mad, each year it’s still too late for me to save you.

Too late to fight the good fight make the wrong things right to say “Look mum here’s my daughter, hold her tight”

It’s too late, and the world’s still not right.

We still squabble about power and fame.

Monopoly games the E.U and bullshit time frames.

We imprison dog dads and comics for saying “Fags” and good dad’s who lose their kids to matter of fact lies from drunk b*tches with sperm eyes and each time we don’t kill a pedophile or inprison a killer a part of me hides, dies and lays dormant at the bottom of a dark ocean of doom to spark torment.

I guess I’m mad because like these comics I talk sh*t to to get a reaction sometimes. Choose words that aren’t wise and believe free speech should smack you between the eyes and have poetical justice.

The choice to blur the rules, change Haiku’s to two four two’s and do things others dare not do.

With words fool, then there’s you. Raping and killing, abusing the woman. The thrill you still walk the line of your doing no time and they wonder why I’m anti establishment they’re half of the crime.

I’m mad you won’t be read.

Mad you’re in the land of the free.

Give me three minutes.

Come take a walk with me.

© G.P Williamson 2018



Paraplegic perception.

Paraplegic perception.


I couldn’t tug any harder at the heart strings.

I tried.

I tried to raise a confession from those who hide, tried to make eye contact as they avoided me.

Tried to turn their heads hard to make them see.

Make them see their own weakness through reflection.

Their negative views through clear perception.

Their own soul through vivid recollection and eventually it twigged.

A chaotic revelation.

Guilt rides guilt a top an angry horse, a steel chariot of gold and black with every derelict plan of attack.

I want my god damn money back.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

lethality, a vicious fatality.

Lethality, a vicious fatality.

14th February 2018

Like a frightening form of greased lightning.

You stole my soul and birthed a pocket troll that made my whole world a completed goal.

Then another daughter to a father of a treasured feather lover.

Rekindled faith in human kind where a black mind resides behind the curtains of open lands in places I can’t find.

Unity the symbol of a snake eating its tail, ting yang balance and the relationship absails.

Pales in comparison to a million hues of colorful rainbows and there out the window like a stray balloon it goes…

I’ve tried every resource I’ve ever known.

You’re not lifting me up and that’s not home.

I’d turn two faced to a half mirror for a priceless artifact I can’t replace.

Drag that damn car from outer space with Primarks own make shoelaces but my children?

Touch once in the venomous tongue of evil and face the wrath of one movement, no pain just fast and lethal.

© G.P Williamson 2018


You’re old hat.

You’re old hat.


More respect than that I offered.

Two dishes, a whole meal. I opened my coffers and you spewed a pointless waste, an offer of two tastes which dictate the trust I misplaced.

You’re basically old hat, tit for tat, just another ten a penny slip and slide rat.

I gave you more credit.

I thought you were more than that.

Rude without wit.

Offensive without satire, cold without heat.

Passion with no desire.

I’d fumble with words if your coat I wanted to open.

I thought you unique.

You’re bespoke and broken.

Here’s a dollar at best you’re half of the token.

You want cold?

I’ve spoken.

© G.P Williamson 2018




January 16th 2018

It’s like the beauty of getting snail mail or the traditional feel of an old wives tale. A piece of heather, a lucky rabbits foot.

Peeling an apple in one go and then throwing it over your shoulder to make the initial of your true love.

They’re all good stuff, but are they enough?

What happens when you’ve tried all the achey achey oils and the wakey wakey pills?

Most give up leading to addiction or negative connection. The rest just make do with a good old breakdown of which there’s a few. If you’re picky you even get to choose.

But then, what if you don’t want to quit? Maybe you’ve done your breakdown, had your rock bottom. Felt the world has ignored you and now aren’t ready to be forgotten.

What of those who still have that splinter in their mind and can’t let go? I don’t know many things but I know these are the people we don’t forget.

The ones who say “I’m hurt yeah, but I’m not done yet”

The ones who fight through sweat. The ones with scars and broken jars of hearts and aces with a hundred faces of pain and regret and still they chant with stamping feet and mean glares “I’m not done yet!”

I’m not done being me, being to me your vicious problems and we’ll bring to you our war. We are survivors, legends and will be remembered.


© G.P Williamson 2018