The hurts from church.

The hurts from church.


She couldn’t sleep for the hurts from church.

Splinters had dug deep from where her nails made skin weep.
She didn’t believe in herself.

She was in deep.

She sat stoney eyed amidst a hundred sheep who’s pain collide.

He stood in the pulpit.

Prompting their suicide unknowingly.

Another puppet of a mediocre society.

That night after prayer and hymn, evening song and lashing, the damn burst.

She grabbed a pen and started to write.

“I couldn’t sleep for the hurts of church”

© G.P Williamson 2018

Scribblings and squabblings

Don’t be funny!

Don’t be funny!

15th January 2018

It was funny how all his relationships were the same. More lines penned in ink than spoken words. More time to think, what to think, the ways in which her eyes he sinks and something new, something always new or unknown that gets shown or thrown. Something that drives him over the brink and brings him home alone.

He sat staring at the page of her as he wrote her up whilst her face flickered “Calling” on his cell phone. They were all like a diary, some carried over month to month whilst others were categorised by section or season all filled with the same charges of dishonesty and reason. Explanations of excuses and fabricated truth’s without use.

Lies and vicious smarts from scarlet whores with bitterness that rips at tender sores and beneath it all the loneliness hits to the point of admission. He just wants to hold all of them once more. The subtle fragrance and essence of fleetingly being complete. Cleaning the sheets, making excuses and admitting defeat.

A caricature of a man he was now obsolete, a boy at best for a man owns only his dignity and word.

She was different, unique. Fire from lips to hips with sarcastic purses non eclipsed spiritualised conversational trust she talked him to new heights whilst her eyes asked why? She knew the endings to a thousand stories, caressed him without warning and lingered in essence morning after morning.

He was a writer with nothing to say. He penned alone, solitary most days. She worked with hundreds over the course of a day. Her journey making the perfect pale skinned puzzle, a statuesque masterpiece masquerading as something he hoped to see.

There she lay four days later eloquent like a piano he’d play later, watched and admired she stretched a desire, exhaled to perspire. It mixed the crescendo higher and liar, she soul searched his kingdom, heart lurched his freedom, hip rolled his ego and swallowed all his words whole.

His Copy write was stolen in a contract of love. It was funny how all his relationships were the same.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

The cold of death.

The cold of death.


There’s not always growls and howls where the stalkers prowl.

rustled bushes, bulrushes, ivy dances in midnight crushes.

Smell of tomatoes where the water meets cold toes, shoes thrown.

Where home-grown ropes are sewn.

Where moral justification is two-tone.

Below the scaffolding of a crimson dome.

It was cold there, underwater.

She’s another innocent man’s daughter.


© G.P Williamson 2017

Graphic, poems

Kill your darlings. (Graphic)

Kill your darlings.


His eyes rolled back a clear two seconds after the bullet tore through his chest.

By through I mean into the front through the chest turning and churning and then just blowing the back clean out like a visual megaphone shout.

A megaphone rattled with a clear-cut reply – he’s out.

He was a father, a worker, a grafter, a soldier, an author, he’d fathered a daughter.

A warrior, a trooper, the main part of a group.

The class clown, the cheer us on one. the nice word for anyone.

The last penny guy.

The man I just watched die.

Stood there all helpless as back rolled his eyes.

Crimson hadn’t landed when I turned and disbanded.

Arms by my sides, huge weight realised.

The night train I’d ride without him by my side.

You’d meet me at Euston at the end of the bridge.

You knew what I needed – you’re humor always the best.

You’re eyes rolled back a clear two seconds after …. the bullet tore through your chest.


© G.P Williamson 2017