disarray bustle as they group slide off bus treading quickly holding useless bundles spouting too many words to register as real carrying reasons unrelated to time as is into blend of light rain and cars too loud
a laugh or shout or scowl binding a pinch as truth unfolds while spilling into veins of pathways and roads for next attempt at situation that could easily go unnoticed in body mass of many separating in light
and me in my after-covid fog no better clutching at strongest black coffee found relishing seat at too wobbly outside table trying not to return to thought of sick bird flapping in my overgrown back garden
another bus stops and out they fall again and i become locked in why happenings the corner fight between two meth-heads my partners kind eyes when concerned and has bird already been killed by cat
a guy asks me for a cigarette and i jump and instead of sorry mate or i don’t smoke i nod a feeble decline and he mumbles off while i gulp coffee aware of small pleasures crowds on buses and a dying bird’s plight
Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely.
Proud and professional, these beds thread proud blooms of mystery, give back a long, lingering orb to every schizoid smile. Bright, glossy, fay, charms on their backs, they come to rest on every ward: all streeted slab minds are visited.
The nurses strewn midst warts and brogues or children running from the trees past cells and wimpled swingers seize each wild and whitened face that tops each champing blanket; momently, as madness matters swathe and marry:
And sense now the rolling scentedness that cries beneath all dreams made blue, and for a second greet the high soul, so healthful, mad and fucking true. The patient wards conceive. ‘My, My’ they whisper at their own dismay.
For formed away in some deep wound may flow the insane yell of lust round lonely living so near death’s end, and what was revered in its dead crust amongst blind tears, the wrangled rend of familial mummy dadas, there
At last time starts to heighten. Far from the constraints of christs that lie unreachable inside life’s tombs the doctors fart and let sex fry through closer things than what has come, and thrill to mind-mess all men are?
Recusancy and After?
How recusant, the departure of good minds down alleyways, or watching the lean doors opening past the milk-white strain of ashes, rising and falling.
Mad-man or soldier? both are fazed to dream; and, oh, they simply get married or content themselves with killers mourning… Whipped beds of sex deem so explosive that
Men note melodeons appear praying, or the tiny decks of water cloying and spraying, or, on late evenings, watch cross-hearted waders washed in lime?
Like new stored clothes, the huge decisions spread out like feet and invent a new way of treading; this is the random wake of minds, the
Close call of the murderer running. Here subventing each wade and rote, the stolid brain suffuses and closes right away.
We Cannot Hear the Sleep of Words
We cannot hear the sleep of words Under the seas, under the flowers, under the tides of out lots And the bustling over sheets in skies depleting Or our infinite whispers unheard. How Inevitable silence whisks us is the tune That, like the spires of monks, grows tired with the trends And, dreaming about the text, Shies into the fire. Words Are as remote as the stars and their staring dawn, As perceived as God. Does This quiet sleep of words hide schemes, hide fears? Does the last lash of the wind and the failing wing Outwardly spiel an end? Let us listen, Open the mind and listen For a sigh, a sign Of speaking unadorned. There is No cry, there is only The one weathered night whose wakefulness stings and Hoots the Word over and over Until the speaking dies.
Through a Glass Darkly
And no-one can deny That love is more tedious than lies Seeing the mirror of the third When fearing time’s cries Creates behaviour a mind can’t stir
I have slowed in my swagger to find That death cannot ever ride The waves of its occidental sea The nut-strewn road and its cavalry Refine lust and its plans.
Coins in hands work for a life And regal banks are sworn Dead by a majesty of man-and-wife This thurible holds intense Incense; so too, starved tears
Weep from their command A mute space sears the bent Cities are altogether shent And no-one can deny That love is more tedious than lies
The blind fo’csle inside this brain Must swear till death dies.
I Neglect Nothing
I neglect nothing – Your furled scent, the bitter tea, The merciless maxims spurting Diamate into the fire.
I conclude us both, like a Will – The one impressed is me, And you are filigree wrought, Your stare as kvetch as desire.
(Now you must own no friends – With your head howled back, Like a sightless toy, like A figurine, you must seem closed.
Childless, your mouth is contorted, Splintered, epileptic – mine Is an ovum, disposed As an idol on a grave).
You placed a cigar to my lips – I, laughing, put out the fire, Congruous and calm. Yes, I recollect babies and flowers: A slap about the face of death..
And then you quietly rocked From side to walled side and moaned Like a gale of sadness starting.
A Kind of Decalogue
Item, an animal, and how it changes shape, Now a slick leopard, then a white air Of tigress, ape or lemur. The forms won’t take One simple pattern for long. Item, the crow
And then the simple blackbird, gathering up Hunted petals. Item, a demesne of guns Hotly presented to a potted face, A shaft of holly leaves, darkness begun And flapped astray. Item, motors without grace, Churning the fair aside. Item, the bones
Of reservations, now Plot One, Plot Two Purveyed by engineers. The hunters are half-conscious of their Deeds And cackle. Signs are made, sometimes honed,
And then the silent Blue?
Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has won three full awards for his poems. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.
Sometime before midnight, he walks out onto a balcony. He climbs onto the ledge and stands there — on the tails of an old year, inching precariously toward the new. He spots me below, on the other side of the street. He stops. It has been raining all night. The road holds reflections of the city skyline on the ground, like a dazzling kaleidoscopic painting on a wet canvas. Water drips into the drains, reflecting lights like electric fire. He climbs off the ledge; his eyes remain fixed on me. He smiles but looks embarrassed. Across the road from me, he is two floors up from a tree-lined boulevard. He disappears back into his apartment. I return my attention to the street again. Most of the snow has melted during the day, and now a glossy sheen covers the roads. A small group of revellers come into view, giggling and swigging drinks. They kick and throw what’s left of the snow at one another. Later on it becomes busy. People are rushing hither-thither, I guess from one party to another, before the midnight hour strikes. He has returned to the balcony, now brandishing a flute of champagne in his hand. As the clock strikes midnight, I hear cheering from the cafes and bars. He raises his glass to me and mouths “Happy New Year”. Somewhere fireworks go off. I watch their dazzling colours reflect in the apartment windows in front of me. I scan from window to window, stealing delight from celebrations never intended for me. He remains out in the cold for another hour or so before waving goodbye and returning to his apartment.
spring
Life has returned. People on the street look fresh and rested from their winter hibernation. It’s as if they too are sprouting the first shoots of optimism for what the year has in store.
One hazy morning I am forced forward with a violent strike. I’m stripped—my clothes torn away with impatient hands. An overweight woman huffs and puffs as she picks up my scattered clothes from the floor. She leaves. I’m left naked. A few people in the street notice me, but no one cares. Later that morning a young store assistant walks over to me. With gentle hands, she slips my arms into a white crepe shirt. The two top buttons left undone. She lowers me onto the worn carpet to get a pair of tights on me. This is something she hasn’t got the knack of. It takes her a long while to get them on; she has to wiggle my feet about to get them over my heels. It gives me a chance to look around the store. The other models are poorly made, and some are downright grotesque — missing limbs and decapitated bodies. I try not to judge, but some of the clothes they wear — good heavens! None of their outfits matches. Once I am back upright, she pulls a knee-length blue pencil skirt around my waist. The look is complete with a matching blazer. A business suit! I feel power and authority hum through my plastic body. The young woman repositions my arms before leaving. I now stand with authority, arms folded across my chest—the ruthless stance of the modern business age.
He says he wants to be my boyfriend. He tells me he loves me. Maybe he does. In the evenings I usually see him. He once told me this is his favourite moment of the day. I want to be a good girlfriend, so it is my favourite moment of the day also. When he first came into the store, he was nervous. It was only a couple of days into the new year. On a meandering journey towards my window, he stopped several times. He pretended to look at clothes on a rack or to look at his watch. When he stood by my side, he introduced himself, almost in a whisper. He often glanced around the store and touched his face when he spoke. He told me he felt the need to explain his actions from New Year’s Eve. He said it had been six months since he last spoke to Maria, his ex-girlfriend; we don’t like her or her new boyfriend, Kenny. He tells me they had been through difficult times before and assumed they would get through this one. They had a fantastic social life, both together and separately. Then one night, she left without warning. She phoned him two days later to explain that she’d met someone else. My boyfriend imagined Maria and her new boyfriend celebrating New Year’s Eve together. Maybe on some exotic beach — drinking fluorescent cocktails and giggling under a warm sun. He said that night in his apartment; he could hear their laughter echoing around his head. He said he would never have gone through with jumping. He tells me he is dependable.
summer
The endless days and humid nights can mean only one thing: summer has finally arrived. It warms the street, igniting the weeds and grasses that grow in the cracked pavement.
Customers now fill the store daily. They rush about, caught up in the heat and frenzy of the long days. Gone is my business attire. The young assistant has given me a beautiful cotton dress and matching sandals. My legs feel the warmth of the morning sun shining through the store window. I also have a new posture! It’s the pose of someone who should be carefree and ready to embrace the world — a hand on my hips, one arm flying in the air and a twist in my waist. The dress and happy-go-lucky demeanour do have their downsides; the men on the street leer at my breasts and hips and partially exposed legs as they walk past the window. My boyfriend never leers. When he tells me he loves me, I can see happiness on his face. There is no reply. My lips do not move. My face remains static. None of this matters. For the first time, he visits me during the workday. He should be in the office, but he is ill. He suffers from hay fever and has taken two days off. He comments on my new dress; he likes my new look. My boyfriend has more confidence now. He no longer appears awkward. He stands up straight. One day he says, ‘I got you this.’ He puts a thin silver bracelet on my wrist and beams. When he leaves, I hear the women from the department store snigger. They call my boyfriend a ‘weirdo’ and an ‘oddball.’ He sometimes talks about all the little things Maria said that upset him. He has a long list. I think this is why I appeal to him. Outside, people’s responses are unpredictable, frightening or demeaning in his world. Wrong reactions seem to upset my boyfriend. I give him a predictable comfort; I have never said an unkind word to him. I cannot offend him by being aloof or giving him an upsetting look. Our relationship is sterile but clean and free from the usual strains.
autumn
The nights grow darker, with the last of the summer fruits eaten. Leaves lay glossy on the rain-washed street.
I have a seductive bedroom look, a sensual bodysuit with a strappy open front and keyhole crisscross-lacing back. It’s made to thrill, complete with a bold red robe. My hand has been placed across the top of my chest, with the other resting by my side. It is a beautiful pose to bring out my desirability and femininity.
My boyfriend is taken aback the first time he sees my new look. He is nervous, like the first time we met in the store. After a few more visits, he gains confidence. When no one in the store is looking, he tenderly strokes my leg. Sometimes he holds my hand as he tells me about his day. His palms are always sweaty. He is thoughtful. He always asks me questions like, ‘Are you warm enough?’ He never looks at others as he walks over. His passionate eyes are permanently fixed on mine. Does it matter if I’m not real? It doesn’t matter to my boyfriend. When a man stares at a naked woman, is it her personality he is interested in? Is a woman’s personality not something that some men wish to escape from? One time his phone rang while we were together. He pulled it out and scoffed at it. ‘Now she calls when I’m finally happy again.’ He hangs up and replaces the phone into his jacket. I heard today he might be going to Hong Kong next month for a business trip. ‘It’s up in the air right now, but if it does happen, I’ll bring you back something nice.’ His gaze goes down my body before he looks back up at me and caresses my cheek. ‘It’ll only be for a week… Absolutely not, work only. I have no intention of visiting those places.’
winter
The bitter wind outside reminds us that winter is approaching fast. I observe frost glistening on the pavement in the morning half-light. Within the apartment block across the road are every child’s Christmas dreams.
A new store assistant dresses me. She is middle-aged and has a large face with plump lips and a thick mask of makeup. She handles me firmly but not with malice. She turns around as she removes my lingerie. I inspect the other models — they’ve not had a good year. Most have cracks in their skin, and all have scraggly hair. When the assistant is finished, I am back, staring out the window. I’m wearing a beautiful vintage-inspired mint-green winter coat, a perfect antidote to any winter blues. Made from luxurious, soft materials with a detachable hood and faux fur trim, she has even teamed my outfit with a pair of matching gloves and a cosy knitted scarf.
Snow begins to fall. I watch as cascading flakes dance on the wind. My boyfriend is walking down the street; plumes of his breath rise into the slate-grey sky. I see him approaching behind me in the reflection of the store window. We look like a washed-out photograph. When he does turn to face me, he still has snowflakes in his hair. He tells me he likes my new coat and says I look ‘homely’. Then he explains that he turned down his business trip because he couldn’t be away from me. The way my boyfriend looks tells me I should be happy, so I am happy. He reminds me it’s been almost a year since we first met. He tells me he has a particular question to ask me tomorrow. My boyfriend looks excited.
When the store is closed at night, a middle-aged store assistant talks to some men; I hear them say I will be relocated to a new flagship store in a big city. I take a last look across at my boyfriend’s apartment. I guess I am also capable of betrayal. I wonder what he wanted to ask me tomorrow. I’m escorted to a van. As I am driven away into the winter night, I guess we’ll see how much he really does love me, as he said he does.
Thomas Paul Smith is a writer from London, England. He works as a radio show producer in Dubai.
Bound to North Not home nor far Made by escape, A hope to fight
Trust lantern lost Believed or touched Fade made by dark, And light by light
When cold turns warmth And prayer divides Be either sail in storm, Or spark from night
Made Up in Laughing
Frame half-open windows Slip out of billows Stomp on the sunlight stamped in the sidewalk Dry and kind
Call off a shadow Tripped up in meadow The sere breath is casting, made up in laughing Holding all chance others left behind
When day drops to fair-low Return not its sparrow Its echo’s in moonlight, verve in the clockwork Draped in the caul of what we can’t unwind
Port of Call
Damp stains Beneath a starlit sky
The gutter is calling For all memory; it’s time
Let go The winds already fled to leave behind
A world not falling Port of call and not again
The Pronation of Shangri La
Bellowed to the threat of any falling leaves Softcore Shangri La is gone but far from freed Caught in the tired idea that petrichor is wrong
Upended by some heathen in the scattered steam A valley that’s been dried out yet not quite cleared Cross-eyed, unremarkable garden forms a path
Retreaded by many so-and-sos just like me To the beacon of kingdom con and its seams Whatever’s being kicked up stains twice, and
there’s no going back
Trading Post at the Edge of Known
Empty more mistaken pearl to curl fate
and find oneself
somewhere with no stars and no fear, no knots and no ends
The varied cost not haggled, just peaked and tipped
Traverse naught and koan, and trust the seed into the flame
leaving only an epitaph of sand
Go without stars Go without fear
Joe Albanese is a writer from South Jersey. His fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have been published in 12 countries. Joe is the author of Benevolent King, Caina, Candy Apple Red, For the Blood is the Life, Smash and Grab, and a poetry collection, Cocktails with a Dead Man.
I’ve picked up skills from unlikely sources Some starker than others The strongest lessons coming from those With challenging circumstances
I’ve found it difficult to learn from anyone That never had to face adversity Didn’t have to hustle, at some point To keep food on the table, or a roof overhead
Those that didn’t have to wonder if things would ever improve
I want those in the liminal spaces That navigated the underground That know how to see in the dark And can find light in the most unlikely places
Those who speak the truth And give voice to the silenced Finding strength to keep moving forward Even when hated by the the bandwagoning masses
Skaja Evens is a writer and artist living in Southeast Virginia. She edits It Takes All Kinds, a litzine published by Mōtus Audāx Press. She’s been published in Spillwords Press, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, and The Crossroads Lit Magazine.
I turn another page. To an article. About the beach. Specifically, how to walk your dog. At the beach. Okay. This I know. Not about walking dogs. But the beach. That’s what I know. Now. But not always. When I left my husband. Ten years ago. When I got in my car and began to drive. Through one state. And then another. And another. And another. Driving, driving, driving. I finally reached the ocean. And that’s when I stopped. Not that the ocean was my destination. It wasn’t. There was no destination. Just escape. I stopped because I was driving a car. Not a boat. And cars don’t float. Actually, I’d never seen the ocean before. Or the beach. I mean, there isn’t an ocean or beach in Kansas City. And that’s where I’m from. But now I’m at the ocean. On the coast of North Carolina. Far away from Missouri. And my husband. (Thank God!). So I decided to stay. Here. In Wilmington. But just for a while. Not long. Just a little while. I found an apartment. And a job at a beachwear store. Selling bathing suits to tourists. Selling tacky souvenirs made from seashells. Selling t-shirts. And I still work there. Ten years later. Believe it or not. Selling beachwear to summer tourists. Selling golf paraphernalia to winter tourists. What can I say? I like it. It’s a job. It’s fun. And it pays the bills. Speaking of beachwear. And the store. We received a shipment of t-shirts this week. Lots of new designs. And one is a Chihuahua. Really cute. I’ve been pretending it’s Max. My imaginary dog. I should use my employee discount. Get some of those Chihuahua t-shirts. In different colours. One for every day of the week. Just for fun. To wear. To work. I mean, why not? They really do look like Max. And he’s such a good dog. My Max. My imaginary dog. Now I can pretend I walk him on the beach too. Thanks to this article. In this dog magazine. But okay. Enough of that. Enough pretending. My lunch break is almost over. Got to get back to the store. And selling, selling, selling.
Laura Stamps loves to play with words and create experimental forms for her fiction and prose poetry. Author of 43 novels, novellas, short story collections, and poetry books. Most recently: CAT MANIA (Alien Buddha Press 2021), DOG DAZED (Kittyfeather Press 2022), and THE GOOD DOG (Prolific Pulse Press 2023). Winner of the Muses Prize. Recipient of 7 Pushcart Prize nominations.
Louder than the island’s traffic cicadas’ shake a tinder percussion from long, straying grass.
They are as unseen as a writer, who years away, will tap at a keyboard
and listen to a printer scuttle over paper in the hope of recapturing the fizz of you and me waiting
for a bus amid buzzing cicadas -burning with songs more ancient than lyres joking about the bus being as mythical as Pegasus or Persephone
before scrunching the poem of it back into the blankness of letters hissing as they flicker out – incompleting a neon cocktail sign outside a city window, while miles away
your hand is still tightly holding mine as we clamber aboard a bus and pay drachmas for our tickets.
Trauma
She has no words in school today. To match, I make mine tiny, firm stones; imperatives placed next to pictures to round their requests,
balancing the real on a surf of swaying meaning. She responds, tracing sounds to her own.
Reading opens and closes its booked meanings. She decodes words into elephants, heavy, andante, stepping sense slowly from the page to something new from thumbed pages.
Her body folds beneath a uniform of crumpled grey polyester, as she hunches at the desk, skin prickling with webbed scabs, self-scratched; still raw, still red.
The bathroom’s razored blur smudging at the back.
Jenny is a working mum and writes whenever she can amid the fun and chaos of family life. Her poetry is published in several printed anthologies, magazines and online poetry sites. Jenny lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats. You can read more of her poems at her website.
You can find more of Jenny’s work here on Ink Pantry.
We think of the fascinating charm. We fantasize about wizardry. We ponder on the amazing bard. We reflect on poetic beauty.
We muse about astonishing moon. We dream of the surprising vessel. We philosophize about fair throne. We describe awesome Indian summers.
We ruminate on the brilliant pearls. We remember overwhelming sun. We commemorate impressive tides. We daydream of bewildering souls.
We recall the staggering sailor. We contemplate the breathtaking storm.
Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.
You can find more of Paweł’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Dream of the Vulture the night before Find an eleven by fourteen inch canvas Sharpen a true H Pencil Sketch the outline of the Vulture between your tears Paint the white first and last Paint the sky blue of her eyes Drink a pint, let to dry Three yellows and two Reds Paint the beak, the eye Blood Red for her Head Paint feathers using last night fire ash Highlight the beak and eye so to speak Paint Cliff and toes with shades of sorrow Pen your name
Sleepy Whale 412
Gallivanting around Like Vultures hunting in the wet straw Driving dusty old Macintosh Cadillac Vulture-ugh subsequently ride Freely cracking with her Guffaw in the back seat Saints and Sages fly over like Hopscotch See-Saw Tiger Lilies Three half ones in a stack in the glove box Horns Dragon-Lilies Zodiac lie in a bunch on the floor Taste her Irish Brandy sniffer lips in Awe
Sleepy Whale 415
Spiritual condition of a Vulture falling slowly Eager anticipation drinking communal Wine Emunctory field of blue Apricots Haunting remorse with holes in her blindfold Motley affair nightly with her robot Solemnities of the very new sun rise Shiny used white flint pocket knife She covers the Biscuit Tin’s full of gold
Sleeping Whale 387
Humours of her midnight criticizing Dancing at the book release ball Dark woman, fair man’s brawl In the dark Gun Powder Cigarettes appetizing Life after life baptizing Eager anticipation for all Golden poop slips and falls Blue Irish eyes apologizing Drink a Pint to heavenly blessed The last come first Weasel rat pest Alabaster silent outburst Like a cat to its claws dressed All wind, piss with the worst Nobbling his last pint best Always knock first
Terry Brinkman has been painting for over forty five years. Has Five Amazon E- Books. Poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed. Winamop, Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant, the Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses, Ariel Chat, New Ulster, Glove, and in Pamp-le-mousse, North Dakota Quarterly, Barzakh, Urban Arts, Wingless Dreamer, LKMNDS and Milk Carton Press.
You can find more of Terry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
That cold cube of ice against a flurry of fire escape lips, naughty rap rap knuckles so far beyond initial infraction, dead batteries for a dying world; I am twisted nerve endings like internal ponytails on the pull, and feelings don’t mean what tuk tuks mean, the data could not be less clear; sciatica for the flimsy paper plate rapture – Ostracism is a vast love of distance above all else, corrugated rooftops catch distant rin tin tin rain, this retina detached outlier behind weepy ronin pink eye sabbatical; unbroken briefcase cyphers so file folders can stay on the lam – you cannot touch me for I am unquarried stone on salamander prowl: biting, glacial, indifferent as a mild pooling blah.
Strictures
And who among you would censure moth for flame, spire from bell, who among the narrow-numbs should be first to fasten the restraints, limit passage, lob cannonballs of criticism? Count my absence as a disavowal, you who manage rank with truncheon-exact priggishness, wall in that wretched wild Thunderbird of ideas; from my wilting lamb’s lettuce, hissing radiators of this balding Rapunzel tower – listen to the plethora horns in the swelling streets below: all awe, all awe… toot toot toot toot.
Market Man
No need for the maudlin insincere, the man at market names his price which is never the price if you know better, the way he crosses his arms, closes himself off and prepares for battle; the barter system is total exhaustion if I am to be honest, my heart and head and more generous foibles never really in it, that absurd dizzying way bountiful hypochondriacs imagine themselves afflicted with every ailment known to medicine and a few the white coats may have not thought of, and the way my last monies leave my hand hurts more than any lover that has ever retired from once warm beds; that wrecking ball shame of heavy feet, of being taken again.
The Daily Catch
On one of my many chuffed-lung walks, past boxed-ribboned confectionery, beyond mossy breaker wall protections, the smell is what you notice before anything else; those large industrial pails below various trawler net-tangles, the daily catch on the death squirm, saucer-eyed dilations unaware of the descaling knives just feet away, the numerous yellow-smocked men with vicious nicotine faces, ashing down over the creaking wood haunt of the salaried man, unsavoury jokes exchanged in strange mother tongues as I nod half-friendly, pull my collar up for the cold; shuffling by in a Salvation Army Peacoat to the end of a rotting dock where the circling gulls squawk over the dead and dying throwaways from this morning’s briny fog-soaked haul.
Voila & Other Silly Little Miracles
Humiliation, yes yes, there is plenty of that & brackish homestead guile & voila and other silly little miracles so small you almost miss them, trip over your own feet and blame the laces of your premature birth, even the eagles in the trees bald before too long, squatting as much as nesting; nature is everyone’s landlord, the bees and the birds & chimney soot faces with glass golden briar hoppers for hands… the zipper on my change purse suffering from inactivity, Swan black Thomas Mann as clunky dialysis machine, it’s calipers squeezing infant brain juice from apricot dayglow, breakdowns along Bullshit Road – mold in the hinges of the kitchen cupboard now caught under nail; what I have is mine so long as a man is willing to catalogue his entire existence: Roman nose, Irish liver, enough beard hairs to invite a thousand men to the gallows.
Secrets Never Cease
Plucked treasure hunter eyes befall you, secrets never cease: the crimp, the golem, this patch-played foil derived which should offer exits for a saving face, whirling tango divots into lined gymnasium floor; I’m the poster child for posters, no eight ways around it… procrastination should be an Olympic sport, or at least a local watering hole with recycled beer and creaky wind-chattered windows.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Ink Pantry, Impspired Magazine, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
You can find more of Ryan’s work here on Ink Pantry.
