Daily Archives: April 7, 2018

Flats, by Patrick Williamson

I am not a silent poet

To fill in the flat’s silence
I watch the couple across the courtyard
who’ve just moved in,
then turn round and put on the muezzin.

He was doing the washing up,
she was walking into the kitchen,
in slippers, carrying the booze.

I swig some camel milk, a new recruit
in a kitchen full of electronics,
the flat chock full of sticks and tape;
one of me, many of them.

And I’m waiting for the call home.

In the book, they promise a land of honey
virgins, praise, a fresh start.
But I wish the path would be different.

I nod & tap the floor, the key turns,
& I am relieved,
they’ve come to get me, I can break the silence
even if just to rant.

As I struggle, I want to shout
do y’know what you’re getting into?

He takes a bag down from the top shelf

View original post 6 more words

Wrecked, by Patrick Williamson

I am not a silent poet

Rumbling buses,
petal your blouse perks up roadside
you spewing night in gutter.

Stealthy, or not so, they
tracking my clacking heels
jumped me, hand smothering gob.

Bleeding 1 am. I freeze
at the slightest spit,
breathing on the sidewalk

a half wraith, half bruised face
in the grey blue
undergrowth of grit silence

slinky bouncers spat me out
you vermin
you early morning stalkers

you bastard couldn’t tell them
where I was, smashed
sirens somewhere spluttering air

I wipe my mouth again
your rotten breath
never vanishes
touching my mirror
smeared lipstick, sickened, alone.

View original post

Mr B, by Patrick Williamson

I am not a silent poet

Mr B
gets out of the private jet
tries to get an Evian
out of the machine.

turn their heads
but the coin drops dead.

He tries again,
for his little sister
the lounge is muttering
lost, presumed dead
no matter how many
buttons he presses
she won’t come back

Suave Mr B
thinks of trying for an exit
but the siren goes
he jumps back in
nimbly, must protect your head.

The next engagement is juicy
The relief is audible.

View original post

I wrote I spoke I drew, by Patrick Williamson

I am not a silent poet

………………they assassinate him
………………they flee his pen
………………they penetrate the forest
blazing out from rolls of print

that trio in the doorway, that
dancing to the dark blue wave
passes for the experience of love,
tread and nudge bodies aside

curiosities to the Charlie
who does nothing, stirred
& morals aghast, who keeps looking
at the Christian host
isolated among its brothel neighbours
to say I think, I am, I draw

View original post

Master of the kingdom, by Patrick Williamson

I am not a silent poet

The master of his phone kingdom
in a swagger, with a selfie,
presents himself to the world
who looks away
& when
the bodies sway
engages a chat on his little crusade
drives off with a newly-bought K
emitting allahs into harsh sun
bending men down in pits, strafing –
the puppet swaggers back
& sits, keys clicking, another homie.


Patrick Williamson hails from the Bath area but has been living in Paris for many years. He is widely published in magazines such as Ink, Sweat & Tears, Message in a Bottle, The Blue Nib Press (including special features on translation and found poetry), Poetic Diversity, Ditch, I am not a silent poet, Paris LitUp, The North, Rialto, etc. Six chapbooks out with The Red Ceilings press, Corrupt Press and Palores Publications. Two selected poems in French-English with L’Harmattan, and two English-Italian collections with Samuele Editore. Poems also translated…

View original post 6 more words

Donald Trump Makes Jesus Wait, by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

In twenty-twenty came a vision –
a rainbow breached the Trump wall
rain engulfed into bridges of green and indigo
a million people scaled that bridge cleansing them when it came crashing down.

Meanwhile Donald Trump turns ultra violet cross-eagled in speedos
an aide says “Jesus from Fake News is waiting for you Mr Trump”
Donald makes him wait and Skypes the Godly bridge over his wall
he talks down to Jesus with a slum tongue by the Founding Fathers.

Jesus came to America in a coughing Buick with Mexican dreams,
he used to drift back home watching his clothes at the laundromat
nothing smells of El Tapatio except for the soil in his fingernails .
He talks to Mrs Xian of home and how one will find them.

Back to the rainbow, it faded in minutes.
It faded like the stars and eagle on the white house carpet,

View original post 29 more words