No harm.

No Harm.


Forgetful wrath in tides of gray, a mistiness that cannot stay.

Cloudy eyes as anger rises, a thousand reds we all despise.

Beguile my youth he spits the truth appalling wretch he drawls abuse.

Clever abuse, articulate.

Obtuse abuse, oval and rounded.

The people who knew it was not them,

should not be concerned nor should they be harmed so don’t fear reprisals you’ll come to no harm.

He laughed.


© G.P Williamson 2017



He jokes

He jokes


I like the way he jokes the days away.

Odd bit of banter a lighter delay.

Delay on progression, personal growth.

Delay on my future, less days by the coast.

Delay on the workload.

Delay with his lies.

Delay by design.

Delay with your eyes.

Train a team to analyze, to memorise the peoples tide.

Growth to overcome, to populate.

To delegate a team,



© G.P Williamson 2017


It’s Bob’s fault

It’s Bob’s fault


If she knew about Bob Lazar would she be intrigued?

Would space lead to a collaboration of stories weaved?

Rising like Apollo I’d lift for every occaion.

Each sweeping manifestation, a biblical revelation.

As sublime and divine as the fictional crime.

The universe may admire her beauty and that’s unquestionable.

However her brains flirted with me briefly through the darkness and the smoke.

I’m glad the visions changed and more so that I hadn’t spoke.

Somewhere beyond subconscious within reach yet untouchable.

Like Faith without the habit, A magician without a rabbit.

I am complete.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Best ghosts ever

Best ghosts ever.


Interestingly she said don’t forget to be yourself, which is strange considering I was me or at least I presumed I was until she’d commented.

It was then I overthought her presence.

Fantasized about the situation and allowed my mind to run wild with unstoppable conclusions.

Illusions, falsities and make believe delusions.

Realities which could be if I believed and yet I didn’t believe.

I didn’t because I couldn’t remember who I was pretending to be.


© G.P Williamson 2017


That’s not a man

That’s not a man


Bad mouthing – real mature.

Like the MCcoys man with a manicure and fake tan.

That’s not a real man.

That’s jelousy, I dare say it.

Admittance, that’s the stereotype of the person I wish I’d been,

Someone they’d seen, famous not just a ghost in the machine.

Write parrallels where truth’s smell and I can’t tell if I’m doing well as I slip deeper down one more step to hell.

No ego! Remove that voice.

It’s the curse that causes the hearse to reverse, back up and reverse again.

You should be the mature one.

There’s only memories of things you’ve done not photograph’s.

Each breath should be like your last.

Make it, make it last.


© G.P Williamson 2017


That bloody clock

That bloody clock


Bleeding with tomorrow’s promises.

The pages slowly creep closed.

Creaking like the soft spaces between a broken grandfather clock’s chimes.

I cease to hear them as they die down.

Unless they want something of course.

Then the blood stains are back to clear the ink and the clock is more than punctual.

Yet between is a broken record.

Failure to change the tune.

Turn over a new leaf.

Leave them to burn.

Perhaps I am the culprit.

Perhaps it’s me bleeding with tomorrow’s promises.

Perhaps there’s less ticking left in my clock.

Perhaps there’s no words left in my…..



© G.P Williamson 2017





Steam from the bathroom billows beneath the doorway.

Smell of incense mixed with some soaped concoction.

She’s brushed up on her leg’s ability in preperation for tonights nobility.

I’ll watch her leave.

My favourite addiction.

She left the varnish out again.

Red and some pot of something cream.

It matched her dress.

Last week it was green.

I remember the black tights, patchwork mesh riding to the height’s of her theighs.

I couldn’t divert my eyes.

Tonight more regal and clear cut.

More Marilyn Monroe than horny slut.


© G.P Williamson 2017