Ryan Quinn Flanagan

 

 

Spilling the Beans

My parents tried to kill me,
threw me down a flight of stairs
when I was eight months old.

I had to be airlifted with a brain hemorrhage,
was given a less than 10% chance of living
by the doctors.

And when I survived,
my mother waited until I was
old enough to understand language
to tell me:
“I hate you and wish you were never born”
on many occasions.

Then she started in on my little sister.
Pulling on her hair as she combed it out
each morning, yelling at her to stop crying
like a little baby and calling her “a little bitch.”

And when I tried to protect my little sister,
my father stepped in and always
protected my mother.

Until he cheated on her
with this waitress he met at one
of his favourite restaurants.

Finally building up his asshole courage
to leave my mother and move in
with the waitress of his dreams.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Borrowed Corkscrew

She sits
on that frayed cigarette burn carpet
right beside me.

So close our tired feet
come together.

Everything bent at the knee
like a curve in the road
you ride the failing
brake into.

That borrowed corkscrew sloppy way
the cork breaks off before
we ever get to the wine.

Both avoiding the bed.
As though it is something
you can’t come
back from.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

 

 

If you linger, old leaflet

as though dropped from a plane,
the seasons will happen without you
if you linger, old leaflet,
out of house-mouse doorways
lit from above like an annunciation painting
littered with punched out cigarette butts,
harbourer long gone, but the habit remains,
the soles of lace-worn shoes sticking to each step
as though the waking world must learn to walk again:
run, hop, glide again…
across avenues long as family blood feuds,
these crimson lip-quivered gorings
of our frenzied bull market vendetta.

____________

In Stinks

Why does anyone do what they do,
meander move from place to place
like a family of non-stringent raccoons
searching out momentary advantage?

Blood thinner refuge
and the in stinks that have kept you
upright and at least half-feral and hungry hippo
since Tesla was killed over a lightbulb.

Since Kim Mitchell stole your patio lanterns
and some genie climbed up out of a public bathroom toilet
when you could not stop rubbing yourself
like a losing scratch ticket at a gambler’s
anonymous meeting.

The desert is sand like the beach is sand.
A red scorpion tattoo on your left forearm
to remember the sting.

That dark quiet way
the bartender lays the bottle down
in front of you and walks off
knowing all your problems aren’t going
anywhere without you.

Overhead Costs by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Jesus
is nailed
to the side
of the house
and I‘m afraid
to call the home
inspector.

If faulty shingles
and cracked siding
cost this much
to repair,
just imagine
how much it costs

to remove
a martyr.