Spit on the witch.

Spit on the witch.


She rages and boils.

Bubbles broth from clear oils.

Cuts daisys for lotions, plants trees in dead soil.

She’s holier than though, with wisdom she bows.
Compassion unites the stars with their light. Fingerless puppets that dance through the night.

Grows old without aging, feels pain without complaining, holds baby’s whilst their mothers eyes are fading.

They spit on the witch, they curse and they hiss. Who is this miss to act out like this?

Show me the lights, gather the stones!

Bring out the door! We’ll send her straight home.

Make her bob, make her drown, cut her arms, tear her down.

Bring the general, light her up. Tie her down, string her up!

“I forgive you” said a man who turned water into wine. Who gave fishes to dine from immaculate birth to story of all time.

There’s a glitch in your history that glorifies mystery. Praises the gods whilst the witches lose victory.

Midwives and healers, spirit believers, lovers and growers, empaths and seers. Medics and chemists, farmers and alchemists.

Stick with your water to wine if you wish.

Mother earth and father air. Neither dies and neither cares.

© 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

poems, Short poems

Just another tuesday night.

Just another Tuesday night.


Her knee’s stuck in the mud as the twigs lashed her face in torment of her beauty.

The sky darkened and groaned as the tree arched and moaned, gnarled hands dragged her flailing awkwards.

Falling downwards to a cloud of woods.

A flock of doves flew and they knew,

Grabbed ankles through the roots of tree shoots as the wind kicks up a new noose and she gasps as her shoes fall loose.

Her eyes roll momentarily as a raven lands and tells her soul that she’s found a new man to call home.

© G.P Williamson 2017


Graphic, poems, Short poems

My Disturbia.

My Disturbia.


You’re my Disturbia.

I’m still hurting.

Metamorphose into a dragon and kick the world hurling.

Cascaded dizziness I can’t stop.

I’m still swirling.

Head over heels has a new motion.

I’m burning.

Corrosive anticipation from your tearful eyes and blood red lips.

I wait patiently – fingertips to fingertips.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Graphic, poems

Ominous ending.

Ominous ending


I watch you at the kitchen.

From beneath my little peaked hat.

You’re drying up the dishes.

I have your cell phone in my pack.

I’m leaning on the lamp post.

It’s cold but I don’t feel.

You’re calling you your friends.

Last nights wounds are yet to heal.

I’m opposite the pub.

An ideal public place.

You’re coming down the stairs.

A perfect darkened place.

Dressed just as you left me.

Yet a little worse for wear.

A little white dress with a red ribbon in your hair.

Shoes clap down the alleyway.

I’m there without a sound.

You pick up pace hypnotically but don’t even look around.

Close enough to see the sweat on your neck.

A chain you didn’t have on this morning.

I reach out a hair palm and you jump in fear and warning.


“You left this at my place”


© G.P Williamson 2017

Graphic, poems

She cries when I laugh

She cries when I laugh


She cries when I laugh but doesn’t hear my screams.

Torments all my demons without knowing what I’ve seen.

I hear her cackles fill the night from underneath my bed.

I whisper “Is that you?” to the emptiness inside my head.

The rocking chair sways empty, idly back and forth.

She turns to face me smiling and I’m hit with another curse.

My blood doesn’t curdle, it’s thicker than that and yet I still don’t know how to react.

The hairs on my neck march to their own band to wage war on a foe nobody had planned.

The Cobwebs on my face write of hope and glory.

The tears I hold back tell a different story.

She rattles her glass and out pops an eye as the moon falls on down when I say goodbye.


Copyright 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