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

Sport and Sport 2.

9th August 2018

I can feel you shake as the lightning flashes in anticipation for the earth shaking as I control the movement of your hips.
I feel your apprehension at the stagnation of the calm before the storm.
I feel the cold tears and warm rain on your soul.
I feel your heartbeat.
I feel it all.
How your presence manifests the shattered remnants I haven’t swallowed yet.
Black and red,
and wet.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Sport 2

All forked tongues and master.
You wonder why I chain bind and whip rough lustre.
Spit polish, humiliate and find it disgusting.
Talk to me about a lack of trusting.
Rough tussling to crescendo tears and gushing.
Stop, don’t stop.
Keep pushing.

© G.P Williamson 2018


The radios echo & other love goals.

The radios echo and other love goals.
29th July 2018

The radio goes and it’s my voice.
A debate, some farce or other.
There’s a time we could have bothered.
We never did and it’s all over.
You sigh through a candlelit window>
Where’s that time go? I should know and we don’t.
Bespoke fonts and trained daughters.
Loving wives and guilty fathers.
Nothing happened, the plans weren’t watered,
So nothing grows, nothing alters.
I understand the illusion, nothing’s right we couldn’t believe in,
So no start, no grieving.
You’ll smile that kindness wide too.
Vulnerable to hide looks and know you did the right thing.
Spark up a Hamlet and stroll home alone as some poor soul starts to sing about love’s goals.
© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems


29th July 2018

I heard it said I had to grasp it with both hands if I wanted something to come of it.
Never mediocre, always learning, the far end of stood out, stomach churning.
Books burning, piles and heaps of skips, mountains filled with notes and quips.
Sarcastic shoot from the hop hit bits of luminescent sh*t.
Fried alive amidst screams and cries, raging heights.
Clown faces, lemonade, tastes of bleach as Bucks Fizz plays.
I never made my mind up.
Legs rise as smoke engulfs my character and eyes lock here until the ever after.
Loved to death and passioned through birth.
Dated in life.
Married in earth.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Can’t not.

Can’t not.

I tried to hide.
Keep it inside.
I know what you’re thinking.
You’re half right.
There’s no bad equations.
No misogynistic liaisons.
No hidden meets or fingers touching souls incomplete.
No sparks flying, left dying be all that ends all love you’re buying.
No love lost, trust cost remainder of us lost, there is a crimson oath bust.
A seam of a heart crushed. Still beats.
Blood from the crease is released.
Pumps half hazardly.
Like I beat but inadequately.
Half the man I should be and glad.
Father and dad.
Something for which I fight.
I can’t not write.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems


11th June 2018


Don’t cry because I never loved you.
Cry because you loved me.
There’s strength in frailty.
Through the misty trees when the haze clears.
There’s caring men who are all ears.
Men who listen, understand, nod along and draw hearts in the sand.
There’s men who play golf on sunday and go curtain shopping.
Ikea furniture and fold out wardrobes.
Suits which will make you feel perfectly adequate.
Don’t cry because I never loved you.
Smile because they haven’t yet and remember,
You’re my favourite regret

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

Short poems

The soft touch game.

The soft touch game.


You like to play the soft touch game don’t you?

Soft touch. I like you.

I’m taking this.

Soft touch. I love you.

I’m taking that.

Soft touch. You’re special.

I want a gold cat on a marble pedestal with a purple saxophone and a multigym with a personal trainer.

Soft touch. I’ll see you later.

© G.P Williamson 2018