More Poems By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Dirty Coal

The coal mine of his head

was caved in by a deliberate brick

and all his ideas were trapped inside

deprived of oxygen and smothered

in soot, his many dirty ideas

knowing they would never see

the light of day

and the doctors tried to work

through the blood rubble of

smashed cranium

and the family found god late

like betting on a horse that won

at the track three years ago,

but there was nothing that could

be done

so that his few remaining ideas

were left to have it out,

cannibalising each other

until the tapping grew

silent.

The Dishes All Put Away for Murder

Stacks of books are an unconditional enterprise

the tyranny of staple guns and children force fed vegetables

each evening like 3-speed blenders new to the world,

when I urinate I stand over the arc of it and think

of rainbows, how people snap pictures like Japanese fingers

and crop them down to nothing

the mud huts of Inner Mongolia just highly stylized dirt

glam rock in a home owner’s sense

the spiders from Mars all nesting in passing comets

and somewhere a little closer to myself

scraggly ear hairs must be plucked out by

industrious tweezers

the dishes all put away for murder

and a strange realization that what I think

is important means nothing

and the things I hold onto escape me

like a trapped bird back

to freedom.

Refuse Cheese

I was suddenly startled half-awake on the couch

by this giant head on the television

that kept screaming:

REFUSE CHEESE!  REFUSE CHEESE!

and I thought to myself

what the hell is this guy’s problem

that he has it out for cheese?

They always give these crackpots face time

to build the drama.

It was not until some moments later

when they showed some protesters holding up

signs that read:

We Support Refugees!

that I understood.

Deep Guttural Belch

you have travelled such a far way

to be expelled.

You must be tired in that carbon monoxide

poisoning sort of way.  

Where nobody moves even though

they look like they should.

That’s how my friend Kevin looked

when he hung himself.

The stillness of a windless field.

But you’ve come so far.

Perhaps they will give you your own

time zone to play with.

Or the keys to the city perhaps.

I made the guest bed up with fresh linens

if you want to lie down.

I hope traffic wasn’t too bad.

Just So the Little Old Church Ladies

That Go Door-To-Door

Know

Any

man

who

sticks

his

own

toothbrush

up

his

butt

before

brushing

is

beyond

saving.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian born author presently residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario Canada. His work has been published both in print and online in such places as The New York Quarterly, Windsor Review, Vallum, The Antigonish Review, CV2, Horror Sleaze Trash, Evergreen Review, Your One Phone Call and In Between Hangovers.