Muse

(An observation on the sexualization of the young).

Almost sated
I wash my hands of you
like Pilate.
And with one eye on dessert
the other, your naked back
I’m thinking
“this one could spell trouble”.
Your adolescent guardians
innocence and inexperience
lead you from my sight,
but not before
through jet wet hair,
and the flicker of a smile
you silently answer,
“but trouble can be fun”.

© Graham Sherwood 2/2012

Ode to Pain

(A dietary conundrum).

We are separated,
and it seems that I can no longer
look you in the face.
I know that you would take me back
in a blink,
and I would love to come. But
four painful weeks have dragged by,
a lifetime, after which even your smell
is now a distant waifish breeze.
Pining, I am fading too,
I am less without you,
Isn’t that the point to prove.

© Graham Sherwood 01/2012

Recovery

(The nursing of a relative).

Your flaccid sausage cock slaps me around the ear
as I slide damp pants beneath your arse,
and your watery words,
sorry! sorry! sorry! spill on my head
like harmless rubber bricks
along with your tears.

Life’s lottery brought your numbers up
but took your legs as the ticket price.
So we both begin here, base camp one,
the brooding mountain,
visible only to our punctured imaginations,
with you in the harness, me on the rope
we start the climb.

© Graham Sherwood 01/2012

Falling

(The futility of falling in love).

Of happiness, but does he ask
the venerable, winking Hotei why?
With a smile, though some would say a cynics grin,
laughter leaches from his mouth unbidden,
wrapped in the paper-thin sarcasm of an unwanted gift.
He dances to the merry tune,
but heavy feet may be his downfall yet
as songs of emerging love and longing
start sweet and low
then finish in a hale and hearty lust.
So happiness is indeed within him,
he feels her warmth
wrapped tightly to his chest
caressed, as with the hangman’s noose
he swiftly falls
through the waiting, gaping trap of love.

© Graham Sherwood 12/2011

Tomb Angel

(In a graveyard).

Captivated, I can only stare as
you appear, a ghost to me.
Tell me how I should love you?
Without a touch, the feintest scent,
nor hidden smile on chiselled cheeks.
Ageless, set in such nubile torpidity,
your sombre marbled eyes
propose the question that stony lips
are doomed ne’er to form.
Demure sentinel, beautiful guardian
waiting for me.


© Graham Sherwood 12/2011

Friday Lies

(Deceit and its outcome).

With a favourable wind at your back
and me leant forward, eyes stinging
we, surprised, stumble together.
Once more you peel off another raffle ticket
from your library of lies,
the rest are shuffled together like paper money
banded by the hallmark of your guilty conscience.
But lucky for me, the one I take
slips from my suspicious fingers
thus ruining my afternoon.
As you leave me
with the swagger of a gambler
who can afford to lose her money,
at least today,
you notice the disappointment in my eyes
and re-chalk your cruel bookmaker’s slate
with the long odds of my tortured truth

© Graham Sherwood 11/2011

Two Minutes

(A personal armistice reverie).

The giant bell commands a silence
with its muffled clarion,
hard struck upon my leaden heart,
self-consciously I stop, put down my work
and fall into the darkness
of a solemn solitude.
From right to left the boys go running by
towards their sure oblivion
into the angry spitting guns,
I see them sprawled across the wire
abandoned laundry hanging
stained by the stench of tattered flesh.
But from the devastating shells no sound
and all anguished cries are mute
in this living hell, seen from the darkness
of my two-minutes silence.


© Graham Sherwood 11/2011