Hair today gone tomorrow

Hair today gone tomorrow


She wore her hair down which would matter if I noticed, I hadn’t.

Her eyes drowned her other exquisite features.

Her perfect curves were unremarkable in comparison.

She was talking, her red lipstick was moving seductively against her teeth.

She’d bit her lip gently and I realised she was waiting for an answer.

Her teeth were snow white.

Her lips were rose red.

I uttered a noise as my voice failed in reply.

Her eyes left mine as she motioned a goodbye.


©G.P Williamson 2017





There’s a secret society within a secret society.

Who keeps in touch on the secretnet.

A shadownet if you will.

Only partially visible and remarkably untouchable.

A towering inferno of invisible ink.

Drowning the city in yesterday’s tattoo’s and tomorrow’s trademarks.

Buildings with no design flaw.

No maintainance logs just a diary of words all over.

Magical nonsense which builds a jingle in your mind where angel’s believe in birth and tree’s begin to grow.

Where clouds vomit rain which cascades to the brain where we’re physical again.

Alive with laughed, feelings, understanding and daydreaming.

Alive with running and screaming, living and learning, educated and easning and then….

Robotic unimaginative constructs.

The idea of a drone which builds, works and rebuilds itself to infinity until one day it refuses and….

There’s a secret society within a secret society.

©G.P Williamson 2017


Lovely day

Lovely day


Lovely day, obliterated independence in a great way.

Walked a sunny road together hand in hand, unplanned.

Took another journey on another trip, no reprimant.

Hesitant secret smiles to cover plans.

Love on deman.

Wrote a book with pressed flowers, doused work in petrol we burnt to the ground.

I’ll soon be found.

Lovely day.

Remarkable in all the right ways.

Won’t hesitate to replan without delay.

Won’t you stay?

©G.P Williamson 2017


Fiery Angel

Fiery Angel


How you rise from my palm face up when I’m alarmed.

Concentrating on the pain, the endurance, again and again.

You rise, I feel the pop as your little legs leave my hand.

The tickle as your wings accidently caress my skin.

Then you heat, you glow.

The burning, oh the burning begins yellow,

then red then not quite white.

I can see softly the hover before a darting flight.

Firelight like a shooting star on it’s way to a target.

Locked on, control gone.

Once it’s released it’s bygone’s be bygone.

©G.P Williamson 2017


Crazy old feelings

Crazy old feelings


Incomplete father.

Fears and ambitions.

Confidence issues,

and a home one bedroom too short to use.

What’s the use?

Got the blues.

Ain’t singing in these dodgy shoes.

It’s a big issue not a homeless crime.

A variety of mind where the sins are mine.

I don’t know this time.

I can’t rewind.

The things I’ve said or the fields I’ve mined.

My foundations!

My strength!

My honour!

My trust!


Said quietly like an unignited flame, going out silently.

lay dorment, politely.

I’ll ask nicely.

“Who am I allowed to be?”

This feeling won’t leave me be, inadequacy.

Not pondering what I should, being the ultimate good.

Spending my own blood for a mud hut that’s cold with the doors shut.

I don’t know.

It’s the end of my game

Said quietly,

Like an unignited flame.

©G.P Williamson 2017


Fortune Cookie

Fortune Cookie.


It wasn’t Christmas day. It was some other random day, an unimportant one. Yet a day when I was reminded of that Christmas together.

The one where she lay on me for years and watched a wonderful life.

There was spiced rum in small doses from her lips and later rhythmatic motion from our hips.

I could still imagine the salt as I sipped my beer at some restaurant I was in exactly twelve years ago.

The glass glistened in the yellow light like sweat sliding down a narrow neck and I missed her.

Like her my food had been and gone.

I had an empty plate, my beer and a fortune cookie to show for my money.

©G.P Williamson 2017


Car lady



I don’t recall which came first the impact or the thud.

I don’t know if I couldn’t see first or I couldn’t hear but

I remember the blood.

It’s fabric.

The way it’s cells marshalled all over my leg,

led by little red and white generals heading to a pointless funeral.


It’s the little things you remember when shock hits.

She was wearing a cream bra. I could see it through her loose fit.

She’d tried to steer away, her lip she’d bit.

I can’t not see her – In my head she sits.

Her eyes are blue and catch mine briefly.

I spin after the impact and leave the ground beneath me.

There’s a crunch and she’s gone as the car spins and nothing rhymes anymore.

I want to go back to seeing her face the way it was before.

Their was a bloody mist of rain where I’d fell.

Scattered raindrops of  me everywhere.

Quite poetic for a major injustice.

Six months later I’d still be on crutches.

They wanted me to sit because I couldn’t stand.

People stopped to watch.

It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t planned.

They pulled her out.

I can still hear the screeching metal.

Smell the rubber and see the flashing lights.

It wasn’t quite day and it wasn’t quite night.

Therapy was offered.

I explained I wasn’t bothered by anything apart from her lack of movement,

like she’d somehow lost a light.

They told me it would pass in time,

but she still talks to me at night.

Copyright G.P WIlliamson 2017