Short poems, Tom Orrow

Tom Orrow – Alter ego.

Tom Orrow – Alter ego.

Tom Orrow could be the ultimate alter ego if he wasn’t so damn factual living here inside my head, with whips and chains and a King size bed.

Smoking fags and eating Greggs, the opposite of this life I’ve led.

Tom Orrow rubbed it in he made it cruel. Told me all the mean things in the world.

If childlike view torn apart like making illegal all forms of art.

No self expression, no reason to be needed.

No colours, no motion, just blood in the ocean.

Tom Orrow rubbed it in on a riverbank not too far from the shore.

He rubbed it in until it hurt and then he rubbed some more.

Tom Orrow turned to face the sea and sighed that of the end.

Then he turned to look through me, and I used to be a friend.

© G.P Williamson 2018


There’s a case beneath my bed.

There’s a case beneath my bed.


There’s a case of bad memories beneath my bed.

Inside there are:

The songs that remind me of you.

A photograph of my dog before he died.

That hospital letter.

The cinema receipt.

Our trip to London.

Why I won’t ride the train.

The smell of onions.

The first time you hit me.

The last time you hit me.

When I couldn’t stay.

Breaking my wrist.

Watching you go.

The taste of bleach.

A foot with three toes.

Being scared to eat.

It’s brown and is sealed down with two thick leather straps, a heavy buckle and a heavy duty chain, with a padlock.


© G.P Williamson 2017