Beware the PenX

I am wary of the pen
a place where words reside,
bound and fettered
in regimented dictionary
monothelite, compressed.
As ink courses, then life begins,
my thoughts become words
given form, embryonic
ready for growth,
staring intently from the page
coercive, hypnotic shape-shifting,
mesmerizing entities.
I avert my eyes
but they evolve cynically, devious,
love to lust, melancholy to sorrow
pathos to satire to sarcasm
I correct and erase
yet still more come.




© Graham Sherwood 11/2015

Cur

Such professed innocence,
a shameful masquerade
where thoughts are slashed,
butchered by your viperous tongue
that spits its venom with scorned abandon
out into your hostile world.
You stab and fight
then cauterize your wounds
with the tainted saliva of a zealot
rich in bile and cancerous malevolence.
What made you thus?
where sprang this addled poisonous spring,
that gorges on the weak
and drowns the precious words of men?



© Graham Sherwood 11/2015

Sis

I knew something bad was about to happen,
lying in bed, in newly pressed pyjamas,
Jimmy Greaves ghosting past defenders on the wall
the early autumn sky had shown signs of change
so I knew the day was about to end poorly.


A bang, wood on wood, a muffled squeal from you
and then your charge up the staircase
followed by much heavier stomping
ricocheting along the sparse landing, past me
I could hear you crying as my legs swung down to the lino.


But then he started shouting,
he never shouted, never, other than to the dog,
palms over my ears, I heard the noise but not the words
then quiet, apart from your sobs
and all I could think was, how upset you had made him.


Thank God we woke to a Sunday
the whole day spent avoiding strewn eggshells
he could hardly look at you, betrayed,
and my schoolboy ignorance faded month by month
at the sign of your fattening belly.





© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

Brick

I consult the tarot
and weigh my loss,
determined,
thinking I shall accept death,
impartially
as a farmer amongst his flock,
with crass ambivalence,
a furrowed brow, narrowing eyes
the unseen weight cradled,
confidently like a newborn
but still its anchor
draws me way way down
to the dark silt of anguish




© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

B4

We breathe within our own dystopia
shoaling, swarming in this hexed, wired world
we walk, we see, we talk,
we listen to myriad hypnotic tones,
cursors,
likes,
no longer remote
but sentient
in a counterfeit world,
the electronic bible speaks
and fools become professors
rich opinions duly slain
for chat-facts
revered, shared,
a toxic viral stew
we regress
in a blink
to antediluvian chaos



© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

Write your own story

(an overcomplicated nemonic of experimental verse).

wondering which welcome
rather royal reckoning
interrupting interesting islands
terrifying tangible tension
equalise everyman essentially

youthful yawn youngest
outline orchestrated overture
unperturbed unusually urgent
reliably reticent rogues

oldest offhand ostracised
willingness waterfront warned
negligent nuanced notion

supernatural schoolboy scrounging
tightrope trotting tantrum
onwards only option
rascal righteous reality
yesterday yonder yellow



© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

Inked-Off

(A study of tattoos).

Hard,
I can make weak men strong
and cowards brave,
burnished manufactured muscle,
my painted opus flows elbow to wrist,
contorted runes, hieroglyphs
or the oriental yin and yang,
I ward off demons, trolls, jinns
and drunken twats.

Soft,
my shouldered diaries
list my roving fucks,
my children’s births,
given names and family tree,
and tribal colours lace my neck,
I pick my nose with love
and wipe my arse with hate,
embrace with mum
and wank with dad

I am ink!



© Graham Sherwood 10/2015