Why Harbours Become Regattas When the Rich Come to Town
Bought four jugs of paint stripper last week.
In a metaphorical sense, though I am no fan of the device.
For the ego, and all that comes with it.
Why harbours become regattas when the rich come to town.
Bosom babies large as heaving church bells knocking together.
Those many fishing nets of diminishing returns.
And I hold her hair over a motel toilet.
That Do Not Flush Feminine Products sign
on the wall like a commemorative plaque
to honour the newly fallen.
And a man will be called many things in his lifetime
other than his name, best get used to a diversity of attack.
Stretch out on the bed like a trucker’s manifest
for the long haul.
Falling asleep to the sound of my own breathing.
The resident hypnotist would have a field day with me.
Have me playing air guitar on some monstrous
purple veiny sex shop dildo for the roaring crowds.
And you wonder why I drink as much as I do.
Climbing into trees after the age of ten should not be
frowned upon, but it is.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
Fixator Press 