five poems
by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Amicable Dragons
The tactical moment had been missed. Gerson sat back in his chair,
swivelling like a dancing flamingo. Police tape torn down and spitballs
from the galling abyss. Teleportation three decades away,
and Salisbury steak frozen in the middle still in living memory.
That sound of hot air balloons taking off like amicable dragons.
The yards below with pools all huffing themselves into choice heavens.
Belly up insects in the trap, fished out by determined janitor and workable hand.
Privacy hedges brought into the fold like an adopted child.
There were papers to sign with lesser autographs, the myth of
invisible ink and great riches that find you like golden search parties.
Gerson pinched his nose and listened to the sinuses fill.
Fairly certain he was a wading pool at the aquarium,
and no longer a human being at all.
Chop Shop Frankensteins Broken Down for Parts
Something in the air like dirty friers.
A tangle of hair, and the kicking of stones in the street.
The four blue arms of Dhanvantari in a rush.
No myth so great it cannot be shattered.
Birch bark canoes hollowed out and set adrift.
Letters home with a healer's smudging.
Sweetgrass and cedar, headless mannequins in fleece.
It is factions from slutty Tenerife.
Chop shop Frankensteins broken down for parts.
That gymnasium of a man
tumbling away.
Seduction Sun
The sheen off the cup could blind a man.
The Queen of the Nile made sure.
Dropping that pearl into the vinegar.
Watching fortunes dissolve, before draining
the contents.
What a woman!
Antony thought.
Arms like rolling crocodiles.
The beautiful pyramids
outside.
Goint Corporate
Micky Mouse digs a shiv deep into the bowels of acrimony, and
takes a Disney Cruise all the way to Dante Alighieri's 7th circle
under the eyes. Going corporate, as that bounteous earthquake of
bouncy castle bards are so fond of extolling. That frigid hell of
snow blowing in April, the sideways squalls still slamming into your
face and killing everything that would want for Life. A chrysalis
interruption and snotty balls of tissue in tired pockets. Everyone I
speak to is so done; with winter and themselves, the relentless
grind. There is a great exhaustion blanketing everything, you can
feel it sure as gooseflesh down the spine. While the company
mouse banks some serious cheddar, and Harry Houdini escapes
from New York in a very convincing Kurt Russell skin suit.
Gym Rats Doing Deadlifts for the Cheese
This Hiroshima moonglow, what a prize!
Tea cozies in shambles, a virulent Godzilla.
Gym rats doing deadlifts for the cheese.
All manner of juke jive apparitions.
Your Rushmore on the crumble.
The babbling turncoats.
Bites marks through the rambling
Streptococcus.
Photo of Ryan Quinn Flanagan
BIO: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Rusty Truck, Literary Yard, Clockwise Cat, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.