Poetry: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

How Lovers Becomes Informants

I saw you through window reflection

I saw you scampering along like a bushel

of unweaned miseries

your greasy mud flap hair dragging behind you

so hot that I never once imagined the Tower of London,

the ludicrous way the cars stopped in front of each other

and sat on their horns, chubby chaos pigeons shitting all over

the backs of tiny manic legs…

I saw Interpol nab your preening lunch hour affections

drag you into the back of an unmarked van

and skid away;        

your mouth has been extradited,

the oath you swore was to her talents

and your appetite, the beds you shared

so numerous poor housekeeping

will never be finished.

Poem for a Woman Who Wears Gasmasks Instead of Brooches

Her parents used to collect them after the war

even though they had missed the Blitz,

kept them in the attic with old mousetraps

and other curiosities, and when the father died

mother made all the mourners wear gasmasks

to the funeral, and everyone obliged, placating the

grieving widow because that is what you do,

and when it was her time, her only daughter was instructed

to bury her in her favourite one; encrusted with her birthstone,

and now that daughter is a woman herself

she works as a fetish model sporting…you guessed it;

there is some serious coin in the gasmask fetish market

I am told, by this woman who wears gasmasks instead

of brooches; makes at least four times as much as I do

when employed, posing for pictures in various run down

locations so the freaks can get their jollies to a face

only the War Ministry could love.

Another Night with Crucible

metallurgy was careful to never attract attention

I must be careful too

standing over these high temperatures

another night with crucible

the hair on my chest more man than boy

it is when you howl for mercy that the wolves arrive

in hunched stalking numbers you can never equal

you see, the dark is your friend whether

you like it or not

15^th century gargoyles for shoulders

you have always been last pick in gym

and first for the gallows

to know your place is not to accept it,

but rather as a matter of survival…

these desires that boil up out of me

what a mess I have made of everything

but myself; the skin just falling away

so I can know the pain is real.

Bugsy Siegel Statue at the Flamingo

They really don’t want you to find the damn thing.

And it is more of a plaque than a statue.

Hidden away behind some bushes near the chapel.

Commemorating a history it appears modern times

would much rather forget.  Which is a shame.

The Flamingo has quite a history.  But I guess when you

want to appear legit, the last thing you want to do

is remind everyone of your mob history.  Which

seems a little silly to me.  It’s Sin City, right?

But they hide the damn thing away.

And after our free buffet, my wife and I walk past

the live flamingos being fed and other birds

up the hidden path until we arrive.  There are

no markers.  She needs her phone to find it. 

Just a single plaque, that’s all Bugsy gets.

Hell, Carrot Top has billboards up everywhere 

and he sucks more than straws.  But poor old

Bugsy can’t get no love.

Driftwood

He tells me it is a different part of the world

and right away I want to know about it:

the medicines they employ for various ailments

how they deal with dirty dishes

why their soil is red as sacrificial blood?

And his hand grips my shoulder,

even though I am much taller,

through many layers and he tells me

about this play he’s been working on that has found

the page but not any actors.

And he asks what I have been working on

and I say myself and he laughs even though

I am being serious.

And I ask him more about all those people

so far away that I can’t touch.

I am in love again with

the unimaginable.

Setu, June 2018