Ryan Quinn Flanagan

by Horror Sleaze Trash on February 17, 2014

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Ryan Quinn Flanagan presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada under 12 feet of snow.  He eagerly awaits the spring thaw or a getaway to warmer destinations.  Florida is his friend.  The snow plow is not.

—-

Christ Doesn’t Leave the Toilet Seat Up

 

Sometimes

I think I’m a sensitive:

not in life, but in death

for those that have passed over.

I have dreams,

and sometimes I have dreams

awake

but they don’t make any sense

so I pay no mind

to them.

 

I tell the missus

and she scoffs.

She says I’m a brute,

nothing more.

An eater of pork

and slave to the bottle.

You forget, she says,

I wash your dirty drawers;

what, you think you’re a saint

or something?

 

Mother Teresa

doesn’t leave skid marks,

she laughs

like wisdom threw up

in her mouth.

 

Christ

doesn’t leave the toilet seat

up.

 

She is a wise woman.

 

Her arguments

are grounded in

reason.

 

Still,

I think I’m a sensitive.

 

A sensitive

with his shorts in the tub

after too much to drink

and a fart that got

out of hand.

 


 

When it Rains, it Pours, and it’s Never Stopped Raining for Me

She does not believe the doctors

when they say I may have to be on

anti-depressants forever.

 

She offers to suck my dick:

that would make you happy.

 

Momentarily, I say,

but no amount of dick sucking

is going to fix what’s wrong

with me.

 

She leans back against the headboard

crosses her arms

like a beautiful pouting

child.

 

Her tits smoosh together

like a kid with crossed eyes.

 

We have had this conversation

a hundred times

and it always ends the same:

silence.

 

There is nothing more to say.

 

I just know

that as far back as I can remember

I’ve always wanted to drink

and I’ve always wanted to die.

 

There’s no real reason

or logic

behind it.

 

But she’s a good woman,

the eternal optimist.

 

At work

she fixes problems

for a living.

 

Crawling under the covers

she works her way

towards my middle.

 

Her nails down my chest,

I guide her head

with my hands

thinking:

 

you can’t blame a girl

for trying.

 

 

Yonge and Dundas

 

The hotdog vendor

on the corner of Yonge

and Dundas

has the best wieners

in the business

outside of adult

entertainment.

 

The best buns

too.

 

I think he steams them

or something

but they are miles ahead

of his competitors.

 

He no longer has the squeezy cheese

the missus is so fond of

after a visit from the health inspector,

but the rest of the condiments

are there:

 

ketchup

mustard

relish

pickles

all the staples…

even olives for those

walking on the wild

side.

 

He charges a little more

than the Sikh guy

down on King,

but it does not seem

to matter.

 

He has cornered the market

the same way future serial murderers

corner a frightened

cat.

 

The best wieners

and buns

in the business.

 

He even feeds the pigeons

day old product

when the lunch crowd gets out

so they will see everyone else eating

and having a good time

and they will give him their business

too.

 

That’s one smart motherfucker.

 

I bet he went to business

school.

 

A home in Markham.

Four cars for the two door

garage.

 

A wife at home

with a rock on her finger –

the size of

Kilimanjaro –

that 36000 Africans

1200 villages

and three banana

republics

 

died

for.

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