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

Short poems, Tom Orrow

Gin and Whisky

Gin and Whisky


She cleaned her teeth with gin and whisky.

Her hair a fresh bleach cream.

She rode him in the darkness in the middle of a dream.

Tom Orrow captured every nuance with a silver plated lense.

The memory like a photograph that never seems to end.

© G.P Williamson 2018

poems, Short poems

Full and complete

Full and complete.


Full and complete beneath the sheets as emotion hits wonderlust like snow meets sleet.

Bare feet and crisp white sheets hand in hand.

Coffee with no plans.

Warm stone towards a never never kind of home where a parrot squawks and curtains blow gently.

A manly hand clasps a pillow as a wind up car makes its way along the bedroom floor ruining any plans he had of driving – but he’s still smiling.

Give me your kingdom and you could keep it.

Reap what you sow.

I’ll take mine neat.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

My Fusion (Short)

My Fusion (Short)


Your clothes came off with cataclysmic audacity as you were born a new to my favourite fantasy.

Doorway shadows, no fear all care. Blankets of light through wavy hair.

Forgone conclusion.
Waking illusion.

Wish I could die inside this delusion.

© G.P Williamson 2018





I remember walking down that road in the heat.

I remember I’d never call that house a home.

I remember laughing endlessly with friends and naming those stars.

Where have those days gone?

I remember you drawing faces on iced cars with your finger.

The staff room at work and arguments that drove me crazy.

Where have those days gone baby?

I remember throwing in the towel a hundred times as a singleton.

Standing up a hundred more as I became a man.

I miss being who you once thought I am.

Specifically frozen in time, an icy craft.

For I was, just leaves a draft.

Too cold for temptation.

Too hot to stop first.

An empty nuance.

The bubble has burst.


© G.P Williamson 2017