Every Night I Am Murdered by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I hear your guts calling to me.
They want out.  The great outdoors.

Placenta pink innards strung up over the couch
like birthday streamers.

A confetti of tears – but when has it not been so?
do you remember the ovens?
broken love?
trying to keep your dead grandmother’s casket pall bearer level
so she did not roll into the afterlife?

Innocence is the last thing to possess and the first thing to go
licence plates so numbered and metallic and clean that you can eat off them
the marksman out of guns but never ideas
every night I am murdered:
the process, hellish doubts, my many blood thoughts
spilling out over the interrogators knuckled fist,
hairy and demanding like a grade school principal
wanting to know, but not really.

Not the truth of it, no one wants that
regardless of what they tell you.

And mornings are the worst.
Some blooming mad ingrate pounding railroad spikes
into my head
driving unseen spears deep into my side like late model cars
but I am no Christ, nor devil either
I wish only for love as any man does, any woman;
finding comfort in the dark days of heavy curtains
the pail beside the bed

a mouthful of afterbirth
a gurgling milky way of meat.

Kiss me under faraway stars
kiss me right on the mouth
of murder.

Ryan and the Beast Aug15

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.




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