Poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

​It came down from the top

It came down from the top
like an avalanche,
the factory was to close down
and relocate to South America,
jobs would be outsourced
and cut incrementally over a fourteen month period
beginning with all temp workers
and part-timers and making its way through
the ranks of the full-timers until there
was no one left.

Then the whole area would be fenced off
and dynamite would be employed.

A controlled explosion
like losing your temper,
but never hitting
your wife.




​A Little Love for the Punks

The great thing about a GG Allin show
was not the questionable musicianship
or the feces thrown at the crowd,
but that it forced you to react.

Like a car crash
when your life depends
on it.




Sweet Science

Couples argue as much as they have sex,
often much more,
and I had a ride home from work
but preferred to walk
even on rainy days, letting the wet of the land
soak through and bite me,
and there was this bar along the way
which served recycled beer
and allowed you to die in peace
in dark corners
with spotty gum stuck walls,
and when I got home she was waiting
arms crossed at the door to meet me
demanding to know where I had been
even though she knew,
so that I could accuse her of sitting on her ass
doing nothing all day
and she could scream at me for being drunk
which I was.
​

Bio: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, Anti-Heroin Chic, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Your One Phone Call.

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