Ryan Quinn Flanagan

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by horrorsleazetrash on September 20, 2010

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a happily unmarried proud father of none. Check out his site here.


My Friend, the Australian

My friend, the Australian
tells it like it is.

Crisp, clean
razor wire lines
of devilled egg
precision.

No fluff
or frills
or foreplay.

Just first person
straight shooter
cum shots from
the hip.

The real McCoy.

I find it highly ironic
that his initials are
BS.

Czech Mate

There are better reasons than that,
for you
to be on all fours,
I said to some left hand yellow blonde
with her ass in the air
in front of a room full of twister
and small talk
that got offended
packed up
and cleared out.

A few hangers on
stuck around for an hour
or two,
but soon realized that this was not
where it was at,
and like an Atlantic City retread
with rent cheque in hand,
went looking for the
action.

By half past eleven,
there were just two of us
in the room.

Me,
and a guy called
Milan.

And I got drunk
as he told me about his early childhood
growing up in Prague…

After the tanks
had left
and disco
rolled into
town.

True North Strong And Free

read the bumper sticker
of an overturned car
with its wheels still spinning
in a ditch at the side of the road

as police flares lined the shoulder
and I made my way home
from work.

The newspaper two days later
said a mother
and her two infants
flipped over the guard rail
during inclement weather
and slid into a ditch,

dying on impact.

The newspaper also said
a single white female, 45
was seeking a male, 25-35;
the adventurous
outdoors type.

I called and left a message.

For the single white female, 45,
of course.

Not the dead mother
of two.

Assholes

The asshole down the street
drags his Rottweilers behind his pickup
until the pads of their paws burn through
and their legs snap with effort
as the truck accelerates.
The dogs leave blood smears on the pavement
and when they have to be put down
he plants a slug behind their ears.
The next week,
there are new dogs behind the truck.

The asshole down the street
reminds me of the kid who brought bags of goldfish to school
when I was seven
and pulled them out
and watched them flop around the pavement during recess
and bake in he sun
or
the kid three streets over
who spray painted rabbits
laced gerbil food with arsenic
and set off a firecracker in a cat’s ass.

Now,
psychologists often say that these individuals
are deviant in some way
and often grow up to become serial killers,
but the truth is
the majority do not.

They just become assholes.

Assholes who double park
spill oil on your drive
beat their kids
drag their dogs
buy their wives
wax their trucks
and
vote for an even bigger asshole
every four years.

Trojan Horse

A blonde is wheeled up to my door
and I am too drunk
to turn her away.

She is beautifully constructed
and her legs seem to carry on
forever.

I bring her inside
and admire her
as I sing and dance
and toast my good fortune.

All is well
and I think she likes me,

when
suddenly,
two battalions of pointy-fingered feminists
a legion of angry lesbians
a four star father
three divisions of divorce lawyers
and a squadron of jealous ex boyfriends

all jump out
and hack my drunk ass
to pieces.

You Can Have Your Enlightenment, I’ll Take my Appetite

A fifteen year old Nepalese boy
sat under a banyan tree
and meditated without food
and water
for eighteen consecutive months
in an attempt to reach Buddha
enlightenment.

When I was fifteen
I tried to go three days
without jerking off
and failed miserably.

Somehow
I don’t feel the loser in the
arrangement.

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