Blast moved to rural Argentina. The first thing he did was take to horses and burn his passport. It had his real name from a previous life and the sun that ate through the back of his neck each day demanded something different. His parents sat in dusty old bingo halls where the winter still…
Category: Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Poetry: Soot in the Window by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Soot in the Window Do you remember your last love? I know of soot in the window like gangly stockinged legs peering down upon the avenues. Blowing failed smoke rings into the stratosphere. Do you get naked in change rooms? The mirrors are there to judge you because the church couldn’t make it….
Poetry: Another 3:30 in the Morning Poem by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Another 3:30 in the Morning Poem I am drunk and in my underwear. There is thunder now and some lightning a distance away. The lights flicker and the music slows. I think of whip dancers in the village, of powdered milk and the Colossus at Rhodes. I wonder when the power will go out,…
Poetry: #3 This Time by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
#3 This Time He walked into the room third in line and faced the mirror like the voice said. It was like god was telling him to face forward turn left turn right. Then he was lead out of room and back to his cell. And instructed not to turn around until…
