Monday, May 21, 2018

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

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:
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






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.

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