poems

The ratty poet.

The ratty poet.

21/04/18

“How are you?”

Sad and pathetic.

Unrealistically drastic, uncharacteristically spasmatic in a world all crazy and cataclysmic.

It makes me sick how the world turns and their opinions with it.

Spin on that sh*t.

Poetry floored like open doors the vicar takes through the orphan boys and still convinces them of his new toy.

How’s it going?

I’m borrowing harrowing self pity from a self deprecating boat I’m rowing.

Tree sewing with bad seeds and unplanned roots.

I’m bombing off shoots with stolen insult tools all no use all noose and mad chaotic.

To be honest I find the whole thing mildly erotic.

My saviour a three minute fap for a new flavour.

Screw your god, I’ve found a new saviour.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Advertisements
Standard
poems

Heartless woman

Heartless woman.

21/04/18

She lay half broken.

Legs akimbo with her skirt rucked up and her heart beside her on the floor.

Dragging herself to her knees she clutched the useless meat in both hands and stared in bare hope and anguish.

“Pump you b*tch!” She mentally called to a world that had never listened before.

I’m not your tortured soul.

Your bit of rough.

Your friday night.

I’ve had enough!

I’m more, I’m me.

I’m the cure, I want to be free.

“Pump! Pump for me.” She squeezed once for hope and once in vein then in anger again and again.

The blood was red the meat was thick she thumped it hard, pounded it quick.

Flowing tears with empty mind.

A life that flashed before her eyes.

It hit rewind with every slow torturous minute.

Replayed every regret, tear and grimace.

The empty nights holding her stomach with dreams of what could be.

The emptier nights holding her stomach dreaming of what was, and the worse nights clutching her heart for what should have been.

A black tar filled hole resided in her chest where a sliver of her soul still yearned to burn.

We never quit as teachers but we never seem to learn.

She stood up empty and cold as remnant of her heart lay strewn across the floor.

She turned towards the light.

No choice but to walk away in defeat.

Several moments later…

… That heart began to beat.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Standard
Short poems

An unusual darkness.

An unusual darkness.

09/04/2018

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.

Screaming.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

Standard
poems

The price of living.

The price of living.

31/03/2018

The price of living.

What?

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.

What?

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.

What?

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.

Incomplete.

You’ll charge us indiscreetly.

The price of living.

What?

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.

What?

© G.P Williamson 2018

Standard
poems

I guess.

I guess.

23/03/18

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

 

Standard
poems

Paraplegic perception.

Paraplegic perception.

06/03/18

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

Standard
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

Standard