Three Poems | by Dean Rhetoric

Fisher Price Symphony

A yawning chorus of stitches subdues
the migraine between our hips.

Ride me, endangered, a song of Trojan
horses. My face is your snare,

a free falling concept, dripping over the
G- string of a broken violin.

Menstrual flowers grow from the light
of your iris. When we sweat,

all we do is create small Gods. I catch
prayers, edited through

eyelids. Overlong the horizon, your
silhouette salivates into

such dry air sockets we could fill with
breath jazz and kicking

venison haunches. Spat in a crotch of
skyline, your taste

spells Be here, immediately. Let’s be
caught, smoking

in the crematorium, tied up in a dress
intended for church.





I want the kind of adorable
baby brother teeth that
click and stutter
to the rhythm of
every crying Mother’s
shoulder blades

not the kind that fall
like weather
when it’s time to
on school picture day

I want a young and colourful mouth
growing pretty in your garden
not the misbehaving kind,
windpipe crushed
at its
indignant stem.

I want the kind of pearly whites that sing-

‘This is what you’ll lose if you tip the bleach
where a kiss goodnight should be’

In a cracked frame that cuts like a –

‘This is what it feels like to
watch you slowly kill yourself’.




Euthanize the Creature

One unchristian summer afternoon,
in an anecdote that is sometimes a true story
depending on my mood,
I tied that strip of lace
you used as a bookmark in bible study
around my ring finger
to remind myself to ask how your day was
and to stop imagining your school skirt
pressed against your perspiring thighs.

You said you’d never keep a disabled baby.
You’d leave it in the park,
and pretend you were an actress
doing it for an award winning scene.

It’s taken fifteen years of smoking
to reshape the surface of my tongue
that’s touched yours.

England were out of the world cup,
I passed a vomiting Man
who I once saw kick a disabled boy in the park
for asking if he could help him find his loved ones

I really wanted to cry,
but I didn’t bother, really.

I forgot to untie the lace,
so my finger was purple,
pulsating, swelling,
and looked like it was about to gush.

I was going to kiss you wildly,
but then you called me selfish
for not asking how your day was,
and complained
you always lost your place in the bible.




Dean Rhetoric is the personification of etcetera and the self-proclaimed ‘Who?’ of East London with poetry in Sea Foam, Picaroon, Anti-Heroin Chic and many others. Please read with an appropriate amount of apathy.





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