Short poems


There’s a piece of robust glass in my chest where you used to live all see through clearly and sweetly.
It juts out obviously and none discreetly.
Like how you filled me.
Cut deeply and all briefly.
It’s strange this optical illusion of my reflected expression.
I wish I could taste the whisky to dull the pain which resides in like fragmented lies.
Fermented rope and throated side lines.
Love doesn’t burn.
It hides.
In the memory of your shadow I wait for the night to pass.
Until then, I nurse this robust glass.

© G.P Williamson 2018 <– hit for Instagram!

Short poems

Airless wonder.

Airless wonder.
27th July 2018

There’s no spare air anywhere.
You took it and slipped it into a magic vial to your pocket.
Vanished for eternity.
The you I still seek in all calls is not off peak.
It’s love man, it’s deep.
Waterlogged and up your legs I creep.
It’s an echo of your form. A ghost of will. A picture that I used to be.
You live still on but only inside me.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Danger Man

Danger Man


Don’t dare to care for a danger man on the whim of a careful “I can.”

You can’t.

You won’t.

You’ll be the scapegoat.

It might be fun hun, cut throat with a two gun hip tote.

But when you cry real stop – he won’t.

The roleplay man on the other hand.

Crucified dead pan all gagged up and tied down shares his what why’s and when you’re upside down.

He’s your people.

You’re his town.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

It was there in our eyes.

It was there in our eyes.


Couldn’t hide it.

It was there in our eyes.

Unique obsession.

Our obsession.

Like the answer to the ultimate question.

Sore, raw and on the top of our tongues like painful trepidation.

On an expedition and the country was my self expression.

The expanse and growth intense.

Reluctance by chance and choice.

Hypnotised by sight and by voice.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

My supernatural apparition

My Supernatural apparition


I’ve tried remorseful apologies.

Forgiving eulogies and bagpipes with a twenty-four gun salute.

I’ve tried candles and wire.

Our old songs and no sunshine.

A few old lines at a time with fire.

I’ve tried the demonic press, the Ouija and a thousand rounds of pure duress to the back and the head and I confess.

My love for you has beyond transgressed.

Of this leaves the deepest impression,

You’re my favourite superstition.

© G.P Williamson 2018


The bad believer

The bad believer.


The darkness whispers gently and is gone into the silence as she sighs beneath me.

The love is rekindled like a candles warmth, relit as her fingers cup here, a mitt.

A glove of warmth.

What had once gone south has headed promptly north.

Gather around those “It’s not possible” preachers.

I bid you well but I can teach you.

Pull yourself upright on a hard rock with your back straight whilst I settle in my comfy life.

This they call sharing but the parable’s not fair.

The darkness whispers gently as intent ears prick the night sky and I wonder.

How shall I deceive them this evening?

© G.P Williamson 2018 <—- Hit for Instagram. 

Short poems

Desire – The look.

Desire – the look.


She didn’t think she was sexy until she felt my mind cup her breast with a look.

I held her soul in mine with pure fingertips and sinful desire.

I smiled.

She perspired.

She didn’t think she was sexy,

she knew.

She knew I knew it too.

© G.P Williamson 2018