Poetry: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The Statue of Liberty, with Spatula 

I can’t dance like Fred Astaire 

in a peep show booth, on a rare earth dare

and I don’t screen woven silk from worm,

that way I wriggle past you in line 

is pure absentia –

hope in the pages of fresh diaries 

starting out

the statue of liberty, with spatula 

crooked drug lab tigers 

sent back to their only stripes

my, my

these sleeves for arms,

the weaver’s guild closing ranks

like a failing army brought back

to swelling confession

I can’t do it again

I can’t go back…

not even if there were 

such a silly exacting thing 

as direction.

***

 

Under the Yoke of a Half Dozen Eggs 

The supermarket on Hillside 

started selling despots in Dairy 

and it wasn’t long before I found

myself under the yoke of a half 

dozen eggs.  Itchy from all the body 

lice I had recently befriended.  

I have always been personable:

what a nice young man!, the old 

birds would croon. From their

empty nests, their lonely jewel box

boudoirs.  And someone split the yoke

so that I thought of personalities.

Not the ones on television, but the 

ones deep inside.  Only come out of

the hanger to get their wings.  Salted 

peanuts at 37,000 ft.  Look out for that

angry mountain of a father, the bad

beer on his breath. Give you 

the strap and the heebie-jeebies 

all in one sitting.

***

 

Finger to finger, going toe-to-toe

Too young for the chapel, sis tween!

Not ready for the war, that finger 

to finger, going toe-to toe;

hammerheads slammed down against 

a foaming juggernaut shore.

Stale baked-bean fart mornings of all alone,

motel un-comforter kicked to grainy 

browbeat floor.  Cold water face 

and the end of the bed like falling off

that squeaky dumb end of the world.

Palpitations for no one.

This great belly that swells 

with unknown poisons.

Show surprise for our least aware,

beg flowers from dirty gardens,

those words that slip your tired

latch-lock mouth – watering can!

***

 

The Roof of My Mouth Has Never Passed Inspection

Falstaff sounds like a clumsy name to me,

like tripping over yourself in the street

and turning back to blame the sidewalk 

behind you; no one cares that the dumpster

is on fire, the roof of my mouth has never passed

inspection, not a single white knight nod of affirmation –

minimalist art like professional poverty practised 

while winsome barn swallows leave the bale, 

the plant on the back of the toilet 

just green logistics, watered like bar crawl 

urine pucks are watered 

while a losing game of darts 

starts making excuses so they’re not

on the hook for drinks:

this looks like trouble!

Bruce Lee’s Fist of Fury.

Limited parking and everyone 

ready to settle down.

I rub my burning volcano eyes

and wait for everything 

to erupt.

***

 

Bat Cave Fall Guy 

We were both late for school.  Pulling up 

the bent chain link from metal shorts.

But I didn’t fall into that bat cave,

I ran off in fear – cowardice is seldom proud.

And I sat in class all morning, wondering.

Bats were vampires in all the movies,

had I left my babysitter’s son to his untimely death?

My father would be mad because I was not some 

living, breathing champion of the world at all times 

and my mother would be embarrassed which was 

worse than anything because of that gilded sparkling 

water way she tried to fool everyone into believing in perfection 

which has never been a real thing, not like guano 

giving you shit!

And the shame I felt was paralysing.

Away from the fray, but closer than ever.

All those bats flying at my eight year old face 

like air traffic control passing around a bucket 

of the Colonel’s finest chicken wings.

***

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Setu, November 2023