Saturday, June 21, 2014

Ryan Quinn Flanagan- Three Poems

Sex Toes

String theory
would be plausible
if it ended
in sex

Blood flush
and fully extended
like toast
from the toaster.

Ask another Ouija board
who killed Kennedy
in the streets
of Dallas.

buried in the backyard
like cucumber

in a summer


I was desperate, I’ll admit it,
not whiskered soup kitchen desperate
or anything
but desperate enough
to put on that black balaclava
in the middle of the afternoon
and arm myself with a butterfly knife
and accost that garden snail down the street
by the curbside
because humans can run away
while a snail cannot -
an easy target, I thought,
like the muggers of old ladies
like the reader of tea leaves instead of Tolstoy,
but the tiny bugger wouldn’t budge,
he ignored my many knifepoint demands
and when I tried to take his shell
he wouldn’t give it up,
leaving me with a decision to make:
the use of force              
or a quick exit strategy,
and being the coward I am
I turned             
and took off running
down the

Verily proud of that little snail
and mildly disappointed
with myself.

Meet the Parents

She wheels me out into the front room
loads a cannonball in my mouth
and points me directly
at them.

They smile
like their very lives
may depend on

They do not like me,
I can tell.

I can always tell.

Nothing makes it better,
the cheese platter
all for naught.

Those little rounded crackers
that smell like bacon.

Everyone plied with wine.

Something white
and dry
from California.

After an hour or so
of idle chatter 
and many uncomfortable glares,
she wheels me back
into the back room
and closes the door

And I feel at home again,
among her many curiosities.

This old rocking horse
with the painted streetwalker eyes.

A childhood dollhouse -
in the corner by
the window -
full of dismembered Barbies.

Bio: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a wheezing asthmatic who enjoys short walks on the beach. He lives deep in the Canadian Shield with his toaster oven and his muse, believing himself to be eternally hungry as many his poems are about food.

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