poems

Misogyny is haunting.

Misogyny is haunting.
07/06/2018

Misogyny is haunting.
Be on your knees taunting.
Recalibrate your flaunting.
Two shakes of a cats’ tail and I’m scoring.
You’re purring over the hurts where the strap was burning, begging please and thankyou.
You’re learning.
The change in you, the true you that you never knew.
It’s occurring.
The wonderlust true blue and failed clues.
My misogyny is you.
Forbidden fruit is mine.
Can’t hide from the frozen insides where demons hide.
You’re heartbreak broken open, completely akimbo.
Wide eyed and enclosed in a tomb home.
My name on your soul.
We’re complete.
You’re whole.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Poems like people.

Poems like people.

07/06/2018

Poems are like people.
There’s one average one in every twenty or so.
In every hundred you’ll find a good egg.
Keep reading until you find depth, then realise you didn’t like it anyway.
It never was worth your time.
Poems are like people.
They make sense in their own way occasionally.
Often none at all.
pomegranate.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Attention seekers.

Attention seekers.

08/06/2018

They do it for achievers because they’re they’re great believers in the leavers and deceivers.
They shoot down far anything too left or right by their own blinkered short sights as they cough in the night, saying prayers because the NHS is sh*te.
The police will protect you, 90% are left too, poor pay, cuts in policing so much red tape real crime is increasing.
Relax sit back listen to some Susan Boyle all fairy shades, rose tints #FreeTommy shirts and LGBT prints, nothing’s changing.
This sh*t still stinks>
So many bullets flying, I can’t hear myself think.

© G.P Williamson 2018

A short post about the media whether social or otherwise. It always seems to be the most extreme or worst we concentrate on. People are like that they never say they had an average day. It was mostly the best or the worst ever. We watch dark desires and drag roses to inspirational statue poses and create purity for those we know. Then get drunk on stupidity and row.

Who are all these humans? What do they know?

Gary

 

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Short poems

that heavy sigh laugh.

That heavy sigh laugh.

08/07/2018

It’s been a while since I sighed that heavy after laughing so hard your stomach aches.
Laugh we used to have sigh, aye.
It’s been a while because I filed it inside a cry.
It gets too close to laugh, I don’t know why.
I pretend as I look at the sky trying to glimpse a memory.
It’s been a while.
I relive the end daily.
Remind me of that laughter, This teams banter gives me a time I’ve draft.
Maybe I’ll resign up at last and yet it couldn’t replace our old chats.
There’s a fear in that.
I’m not awkward I’m malnourished.
The unpublished memory of the you I cherished.
I know what I have and what I’m scared to have.
It’s been a while since I sighed that heavy sigh laugh.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Uncategorized, Short poems

Retro festival

Retro festival

07/06/2018

Retro festival all mod con rockers donning fine dress beyond old ions of scones and military ear phones.

The smell bakes a thousand hearts home to kingdoms of ancient thrones.

Dancing rock songs like jiggly jangling bags of bones trying to find a hip swinging, tail wagging drunk route home.

Fake bobby’s all plastic nobbys acting fat round like crime’s just a hobby.

Blue suede shoes, lots of booze, icons, pinups, braces and Elvis too.

Uhuh.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Dirty poetry and the lack of humans

Dirty poetry and the lack of humans.

12/06/2018

I didn’t understand the humans but I tried.
I battled in letters, a multicoloured alphabet of spaghetti o’s and alphabites, dark D’s and light Knights. (Yes I spelt that right.)
I drank Q’s and swallowed whole jars of Oreo’s and chocolate bugs.
Humans I’d understand their language was a drug.
I fell, tripped spanish and bastardised french.
I quilled latin and chinese melted on my tongue like a bad radish.
I hip hopped to happy rap whilst metal clipped and clapped to the encore of a badly spun track (these humans, they didn’t like that)
I found peace in a barn in a girl next door listening to Toby Keith whilst her head banged repeatedly against Leonard Cohen’s Book of Longing.
My mouth full of fickle lusts and moist belonging. (I still managed to fit a song in)
I don’t understand humans but I tried.
I dried tears from her eyes where the words of mourning rode chariots of death to hopes of cloning.
I ripped out her heart and put a megaphone in.
She screamed for eternity and nobody heard her heart beat.
Muted ears by Gary Jules Mad world.
Closer to the edge I trod and vanished into the chasm of her mind.
I didn’t understand humans,
But I tried.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

It’s a good morning.

It’s a good morning.

06/06/18

Sweeps in as a million butterfly fixtures.
Smiles like a totalitarian love elixir.
The potion of trust, calm and soothing.
A palm of antiquity, suave, alluring.
Devil may care, it’s you I’m charming.
Heartbeats and warm blood.
Heat spots, seeing red dots, the butterflies won’t stop and it’s a good morning.

36 degrees outside and you’re all running rampant and agile at a million miles inside my mind.
Don’t do this, I’m falling, the nothing is calling.
A corrupt void with no warning.
HoHoHo because Christmas is coming on a bad summer morning.

© G.P Williamson 2018 < hit for Instagram.

 

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