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

Graphic, poems

Rough love.

Rough love.


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


Short poems

Rough and mean.

Rough and mean.


I know today you’re all dolled, ready to go for another no show, one stop shop, two bob a job Joe.

Your whispers meet purr all unseen and clean. A pheromone dream from a movie scene for a man who’ll treat you rough and mean.

You know what I mean. On sating sheets where palm meets face and your feet forced apart all hips displaced.

Tomorrow you’ll lay around all worn, torn and fake scorned like a bad ornament.

For the husband.

He adores.

© G.P Williamson 2018