Short poems

Rough and mean.

Rough and mean.

24/04/2018

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

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Short poems, Tom Orrow

Gin and Whisky

Gin and Whisky

09/04/2018

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

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poems, Short poems

Full and complete

Full and complete.

23/03/18

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

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Short poems

My Fusion (Short)

My Fusion (Short)

24/02/18

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

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poems

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02/09/2017

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

 

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