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

Genius really.

 

02/06/2017

Genius really.

How she did it.

Nobody would have guessed in her pink apron, singing along to the beatles in her kitchen going about her business.

Genius really.

Little pots with dates on for when they’d go.

Bad, or worse if you’d know the smell,

but she’d put them in bin bags a bit at a time.

They wouldn’t know her secret crime.

Genius really.

Walls of face cream with real faces in.

Hand cream, foot balm, massage oil.

Even eye drops,

so many you could pick your own colour.

Genius really.

She was a good cook though.

She put heart and soul into her dishes and her steak and kidney pies, well.

They were to die for.

Genius really.

©G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Heaven’s Edge

Heaven’s Edge

20/05/2017

Drive me to the edge of heaven in a leather convertible and drop me at the end.

I’ll stand amazed at that long path upto those pearly gates and silently bleed out.

Part hellucination, part shock, perhaps, it’s all pretend.

Part truth, part reason, It’s what happens at the end.

Drop me at the end.

Me at the end.

At the end.

The end.

End.

©G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Car lady

 

leavescommonswikimediaorg14/05/2017

I don’t recall which came first the impact or the thud.

I don’t know if I couldn’t see first or I couldn’t hear but

I remember the blood.

It’s fabric.

The way it’s cells marshalled all over my leg,

led by little red and white generals heading to a pointless funeral.

Dead.

It’s the little things you remember when shock hits.

She was wearing a cream bra. I could see it through her loose fit.

She’d tried to steer away, her lip she’d bit.

I can’t not see her – In my head she sits.

Her eyes are blue and catch mine briefly.

I spin after the impact and leave the ground beneath me.

There’s a crunch and she’s gone as the car spins and nothing rhymes anymore.

I want to go back to seeing her face the way it was before.

Their was a bloody mist of rain where I’d fell.

Scattered raindrops of  me everywhere.

Quite poetic for a major injustice.

Six months later I’d still be on crutches.

They wanted me to sit because I couldn’t stand.

People stopped to watch.

It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t planned.

They pulled her out.

I can still hear the screeching metal.

Smell the rubber and see the flashing lights.

It wasn’t quite day and it wasn’t quite night.

Therapy was offered.

I explained I wasn’t bothered by anything apart from her lack of movement,

like she’d somehow lost a light.

They told me it would pass in time,

but she still talks to me at night.

Copyright G.P WIlliamson 2017

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Garden

graveyard garden

Solitary in a garden where things grow and I don’t.

A distinguished poppy looks at me with meaning, whilst I cannot look at myself.

There’s a dog which might be a wolf, apparently it’s symbolic.

Bright green in varying shades ripples through the grass into eternity on a wave of lonliness.

The breeze is nice.

I’m too heavy for it to carry me away.

There’s a floating balloon, I doubt it will stay.

My Nan’s here but not really.

She’s an echo of a memory which was never real.

I don’t like the sound of it.

I’ve heard enough.

She whispers something about intelligence and fear stopping me living life.

I ignore her, she doesn’t deserve me.

The breeze is gone and her with it.

A balloon pops on some old privets.

I ignore the fallen note “forgive me”.

I ignore her, she doesn’t deserve me.

Copyright G.P Williamson 2017.

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Loss & confusion – A journey of self exploration, humour and stupidity.

feather

Probably should admit that I was wrong.
Different story but the same old song.
Being human and all has it’s disadvantages.
Falling for the wrong ideas stroke appendages.

I’d use another word for aspiration but couldn’t find one.
Don’t worry, I won’t the moment’s gone.
Dross and remorseful I swear.
Damn.

A glass eye in a round bowl forever looking at itself endlessly spinning.
If it’s looking at itself shouldn’t their be two of them?
How could it look at itself if there’s TWO of them…
Who are you?
A second thought.
Shut up.

Middle class honors degree V.S for safety’s sake a geek.
Like trying to compare a quazar to say – a square.
I took a shot and didn’t dare look.
It wasn’t there, I tried.
At least this time it was by the book.

I was mourning in my own addiction if I’m brutally honest.
Something I rarely am with myself.
An old habit of self destruction by any means.
Self harm doesn’t always come in a cutting form.
Don’t sound those horns I’m not crying for that type of alarm.

Although you should be concerned but not in that way.
I was hiding from reason, from memory. A far away day.
Riding a cloud of wonder astride an old rocking horse.
I blame myself, there’s no escape in remorse.

Nine months ago exactly if I’m accurate.
Irate, angry and hurt and yet hopelessly stagnate.
I couldn’t write about it. I tried it didn’t work.
How do I write about why I’m here and you’re not?

Throw myself into work it will all soon be forgot.
I don’t want you to remember – I already ask alot.
Perception is unified the marriage is existential.
Pain should be halfed not experimental.

I’ve always achieved great things in great ways.
I never lay with demons and fought strays.
I might not be the right fit but I’m on the same page.
Clarity unfamiliar in an honest old sage.

Bitter nights twist again the agony of youth.
Pictures of daughters brought down by brothers and fathers.
Pregnant women who corrode and fester their waters.
Worse – unborn sons and daughters.

Clipping and clopping that horse clicks against wood.
It’s countryside inside throughout painted in blood.
The motion is reckless I’ve rocked on past a dream.
There’s nobody to hear me and I cannot scream.

I’ll pretend that I’m angry at those for which I care.
Then justify my actions with why they’re not there.
It makes complete sense to take it out on the boss.
Then I can appear completely – useless.

The victim card is played and again it wears thin.
I’ll spit on my grave and delve deep down within.
I’d only come out for essentials and water.
If it wasn’t for the face of my beautiful daughter.

Her eyes hold the meaning, a meaning of life.
I cannot explain my meaning, nor can I explain my wife.
forgiveness lives in meadows the like I’ve seen alot.
There’s some wrong’s which I’ve made right,
and some which I cannot.

Beautiful swallow’s alive in green pastures.
Milking the sunday’s for each silly old actor.
Taking off for a journey to give an indication of redemption.
They aren’t flying up they’re flying into temptation.

Success is a mindset molded from fiction.
Alive on a page which jumps with trepidation.
Zero hour in conclusion and solid of mind.
Neither are real and neither do bind.

My friend the rag and bone man created gold from clay.
I offered him a sleeping place he said he couldn’t stay.
I saw him leave the cemetary where I had chose to lay.
He’d collected all my memories and he threw them all away.

 

Copyright G.P Williamson 2017

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