:: Article

world’s worst boat race & other poems

By Sian S. Rathore.

world’s worst boat race

the actual definition of swag is:
an ornamental drapery or curtain hung
in a curve between two points
or herbal tea in baggies sold as
pot to unseasoned users

both you and yr brother make me cups of tea
it is a game of russian roulette whether i get
your teabag tea
or a mouthful of leaves
courtesy of your younger version

i am the curve between two points
the drapery between what once was
and what is now

i watch you fish a hedgehog from the
pond and say “sorry mate
shouldn’t have gone swimming in there”
it’s like you knew him personally
and if you did you’d know he did that on purpose
the ducks were racing eachother and the
hedgehog was protesting their elitism
this is the world’s worst boat race
and if you had a pond big enough you’d
jump into it too

so we make a spotify playlist called
“dead good funeral songs for hedgehog”
this is your attempt at wit but then
you are the only person i know
who irons their underwear
and picks it out a day in advance

sunday is gloomy
i just woke up
what day is it really? hey listen
to me, wake up:
i’m sorry to hear you haven’t been
in love in a very long time.

three short breaths

one day we’ll all join up
by fibre optic beams and
the trees will be optional
plug-ins and the weather
will be subjectively down-
-loaded. celebrities and
sex offenders will become avatars of
our own choosing, shimmering
in the early dusk to the back-
-drop of a metallic, mackerel

i am waiting in the surgery for the
clouds to come. the doctor calls
the name of a polish man with a
tooth abscess. he walks through
this tube-like terminus and leaves
the scene. a woman sitting next to
me is playing with a pen in her
hand like the defendant’s lawyer
at a sure-fire murder case. director,
prompt please, i forgot to bring
my lines.

idk if there is metaphor that can
catch the beautiful and
pornographic disjoint
i’m trying to grab so instead
i’ll admit i’m thinking about your
dick. there is no word to
describe the hand of a poet
clutching at a cartridge pen
 for the first time.

three figures at the base of crucifixion

the crucified are staring me out.
i look away, and hide from the triptych
without a hope. i don’t want to believe
their bodies. or how we misuse
each-other. how we scour for our envy in the
blood of them. how we address eachother
every single morning.

but the crucified are staring me out.
we parade the crucified instead this time,
watch it slide inside us both, as
inaccessible as virginity arguing
the pleasure underneath the bloody,
peripheral and outright, upright, and
suddenly i romance whatever phenomenon
keeps these bodies outstretched on
the canvas but appear to be still

Go Big or Go Home

Joshua was happiest at his job
the day after he got a lay from the woman
with the perm
even if his job was playing with toys for a living,
he had
always been dissatisfied and –
that just the night before
he had seen the city lights
from the sunroof of a limousine
though everyone at the fancy party
laughed at his fancy suit –
meant the world to him.

she could tell she would quickly grow
to love him, and he
kept saying such weird things, but then
all men do, and he was different

he saw her knickers as she trampolined
right over the new york skyline
and he whispered boyish obscenities to her
from the top bunk with the lights on
with a special ring that glows in the dark

and it gave her a nostalgia
with every kiss he gave her
with every clumsy lap of tongue from where
he smelled of candy floss
and plasticine
and dirt

and he persisted in saying these weird things
and it came with every question, an
uncertainty that made her feel
sad when he said he could not cope
(she would have cried but stopped herself
for want of being the adult)

but why like this? Why on earth like this?
a few things still went unexplained
like how comes one minute he’s tom hanks
and the next he is a boy in the suit of tom hanks?
why were the police never involved and
what did he tell his mother?

but some things, one can never know, like

does this make her a paedophile or what?

Sian S. Rathore writes for Huffington Post and is the author of three short ebook series. She edits for Metazen and is the founder of Sadcore Dadwave. She has been published in various online and print magazines as both a poet and a critic.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, November 4th, 2012.