Graphic, poems

Rough love.

Rough love.

07/05/18

Like a lyre I hear him calling through the trees.

An echo of desire a seething to be free.

A calling from the beastville to the place between my knees.

I hear him calling from the shadows all around.

I feel him in the tremors through the roots up in the ground.

They said he’d make the earth move.

Maybe I was not awake?

This wasn’t just a tremor.

It’s a f*cking big mistake.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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Short poems

Sugar Plum Candy.

Sugar Plum Candy.

29/03/18

Gonna get me some sugar plum candy.

A little rose petal stingy nettle come nicely.

Wrapped packs of ribbons.

Stacked gift packs that’s where the jewellery’s at.

Perfume spreads like wide legs tied to bed pegs with a red grin.

No commitment.

All the sin.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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Short poems

I’ll decide.

I’ll decide.

19/02/18

Drizzle honey as you foam at the mouth at some conundrum, perplexed and fulfilled from the last time you went south.

Bedraggled with the wisdom of age, cage and displayed in a place you can’t fade.

Forever flicking like a raging light, a tower of night through the curtains of moonlight fights where the wolves prowl to bite.

Kisstory of a mythical vampire who drams all clear.

It’s not him you should fear it’s those much, much closer dear.

Come here!

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Only at night – short.

Only at night – short.

19/12/17

Play the hand that warms you.

Taunts you.

Calms you.

Play the hand that conforms.

Surrenders to charms.

Disarms.

Isn’t alarmed.

Play the hand without spite.

Submissively airtight.

Be gone by daylight.

It’s alright – the beast only comes out at night.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Oblivianic love

Oblivianic Love

19/12/17

He makes her cry as she sleeps with dry eyes.

Internal dialogue Why? Why?

Cascading mountain too heavy too daunting.

Memories floating, cackling and haunting.

Awake dear princess you’re almost free.

Chained and shacked where you’re supposed to be.

Lost to kingdom come.

To Oblivianic love.

From lust to confusion which was never enough.

He was her perfect.

She was his dove.

He was infatuated.

She was in love.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

She was a perfect mess.

She was a perfect mess.

08/12/17

She rode the bullet home barefoot and cold.

The wind sailed like plastic ice without the chips.

She leaned on all facial expressions and forced hips.

Force field waves of hair back, can’t breath, keep going and begging to be saved as she crash landed through his chest.

Tore a hole clean through and fell perfect as a good guess.

She was complete, he was a mess.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems, Short poems

Passion

Passion.

30/11/17

There’s solace in peacekeeping but for passion you need a good argument, or a bad argument.

Passion isn’t secure. It’s confidant wild and free, it’s not tulip petals.

It’s rose thorns and stingy nettles.

There’s passion in that danger.

That’s why we seek the rollercoaster.

Dangerous safety, commitment baby.

Keep your solace, drive me crazy.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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