Cluster Bombs into the Faces of Small Children by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Conquerors traverse entire oceans
hardly ever with the breaststroke,
I can understand cluster bombs into the faces
of small children
as industrial diarrhea, liquid hate
the burning gasoline brain –
and she told me I did not care for nothing
which was just another way of saying
I did not care for her,
saplings torn out the promising twist tie sky like backwards love
the nursed beers of pervert’s row forever tricked
by the fog machine
loud music to disorient the senses
like concussion grenades people listen to
when they are lonely;
a dart board full of holes
and a worldview much the same:
if you are drunk at ten in the morning
you are not happy with the day.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with a nurse that drives a big blacked out truck and many hungry bears that rifle through his garbage.