Poetry: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Sugar Rush

the piñata
breaks open
and all your past
lovers fall out

onto the heads
of screaming children
that were expecting

instead of

Love Disappears like a Stolen Car

Standing in the elevator
listening to 15 seconds of anti-Castro propaganda 
carry the groceries upstairs 

I notice the woman is laboured,
one in the oven

sweating long wet drops
on the floor 
and smiling

that’s what got her
into this predicament,
she probably shouldn’t 
smile anymore 

and her man 
is one of those skinny fat
offerings that spend their 
entire lives lost to sit ups 
and still have love 

When I get off on my floor,
I know they will never get off
on one another.

Love disappears like a stolen car.

And the arguments through the walls
break plates that used to be
for dinner.

Evgeny the Loan Shark

is not very good at his job,
I think he just likes to say the word “juice,”
he knows very little English 
and forgets who owes him money 
so he goes around threatening both those
who have paid and those who have not
for failing to cover the “juice,”
I don’t even think he knows 
what the “juice” is,
he might think it’s the actual juice
you drink
which would explain why he is always 
sucking at that stupid grape drink box 
and tossing his straw in people’s
faces demanding the “juice”
in that thick car wreck of
an accent.

God May Be Dead, but Art is Not

Art is not dead.
Not fine art anyways.
Not by a longshot.
There are many purveyors 
of which I’m a fan:
Bonazzi, Karlsson, Johansson, Bell, Maj,
Rhodes, Moffatt, Marcel Herms…

I know this guy in France
that produces metal work sculptures 
that will blow your mind.

He has them drinking together 
as if you have just walked in on a 28th century

There are good people doing good things,
you just don’t always hear about it.

But it’s all there
if you’re willing to dig 
a little.

I like to dig 
and see what I 
can find.

Get my hands dirty 
and blood flush 
and circulating 



I collect all her hair clips  
and throw them into the air.

I scream.

Then I pick them up 
and begin all over again:


A few slide under the couch
so that I have to move it to get all
her hair clips.

Then I put them back in the bathroom
and wait for her to get home.

She will ask me how writing went.
Only me and the good people 
of Pompeii will know.

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