Ryan Quinn Flanagan | Six Poems

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.



Accumulation is Sweeping the Nation


She doesn’t have to pay any rent so she

wastes money elsewhere.  Has three shit boxes in the driveway,

only one of them actually starts.

She thinks of them as status symbols

instead of shit boxes in much the same way

a hoarder is wealthy because they have collected

seven rooms of floor-to-ceiling magazines.

But this one, the mouth on her; she’s a real treat:

has a Nile monitor, three dogs, a python, two birds, one cat,

and many goldfish…more symbols of her perceived wealth,

no doubt.  Never putting out any garbage.  Making $15/hr…a true giant of

finance.  Her boyfriends all low functioning and on parole

and cheating on her with other girls that only have one car

and no pythons.  She can’t understand it.

They probably throw out their garbage

as well.



Love is a Motherfucker


I spill my beer

on his kitchen floor

on New Year’s Eve


Nerve damage.


An old work injury

from years of menial



In the next room

his coke dealer lays out a few lines

on a cd case.


Running back into the kitchen

he tells me he loves this woman

my wife works with

on a sex line.


I tell him she entertains

many strange men

one after the



Much unprotected sex.


That syphilis

can be common as



But still

he is not deterred.


This is love,

he is certain.


I give him her beeper

and he leaves

a message.



Global Warming


The vomit was yellow and chunky

and drying

at the foot of a mailbox

and I thought of global warming,

how vomit could not stay wet anymore

and all the blood too, that metallic smell,

the darkened colour it becomes when it coagulates

and the piss of course,

don’t forget the many piss trails

of the city

that are also dry and yellow

but not at all chunky like

the vomit.


Science is fun.

Not the science of highschool science class

but rather the science of myself:


bending over to fart,

trying to send a butterfly

to the moon.



Our Man in Europe


The house is gutted, the fish too,

both house and fish gutted as we all are

our innards strewn over the grass line

left for the flies –

and our man in Europe pulls his hair out

over the markets



he screams

the rollercoaster of the markets

that mean less than buzzing dung piles

down 136 points in sweaty sporting team absentia

the man or woman in bed beside you

kissing the hangman’s ample neckline

more bad sex than bad driving

folding chairs and folding people

everyone giving it up, going through the motions

it’s deplorable really, the whole shebang…

leaky faucets and leaking bladders

the drywall and the insulation pulled out of the walls

until there is nothing left

not even the heart

everything disembowelled







Try to Explain Girl on Girl Porn to the Mother

of Your Child


Say popular things

and you will have

many friends.


Say unpopular things

and it gets guilty show trial lonely

very fast.


The boo birds out in numbers.

Try to explain girl on girl porn to the

mother of your child.


Like sitting up in bed

trying to give yourself



No one likes the truth.



or anyone



Why do you think

there are so many lawyers

in the world?



to explain away

your many shortcomings

when you cannot.





A child outside

cries because he has struck out



His father tells him to stop swinging like a girl

while his mother and a few of her drunk friends

sit on the back deck cackling,

booing each time the child

strikes out.


And he hasn’t hit one yet.

It’s been this way for hours.


You think they’d throw the kid a bone

now and then

but what do I know?


I guess he’ll be used to striking out

when he’s older:

with women

with jobs

with expectations,

like all the


Original Art for Sale Selling Art on the Net

Original Art for Sale
Original Art For Sale now there’s a hot topic but it’s so hard to do, sell art We have the right names and are sending folks to our new site, Art for sale Original
Artvilla owns lots of great names which we are pointing there
Abstract Original Art (abstractoriginalart.com)
Art for Sale by Artist (artsalebyartist.com)
The art and artists at Artvilla will start showing up at the new site and we may even have a store here. As usual, my sites start out about me, but they morph into being about US. That’s cool and I invite other artists to contribute in both places.
Our art lessons are very popular and folks have been looking at our art at Artvilla from there.
Motherbird, Scars and Artvilla were the right names. ArtforsaleOriginal has a ring!
Impressionism is indeed an over used term and I like this description of “Modern Impressionism” as a “search term” rather than a genre:
Original impressionism for sale
Has all art turned into categories and search terms rather than a search for meaning? It’s a good search unless it’s found, this meaning thing. The closer we come to answers, the more questions we have, the more complex the universe becomes and the smaller our place in it. The universe seems to get larger and man smaller and more insignificant. Art is an expression that raises a fist to that insignificance much like a flower.
A transient beautiful rebellion!
Original Art for Sale? Not an easy venture on the net. Wish us luck.

Original impressionism and abstract art for sale by artist on canvas an paper buy art online from the artists gallery
These phrases are an example of crap we say which has no real meaning.

A Letter to Mama | Photograph | ABIKU | Poems by Ojo Taiye

Poems by Ojo Taiye


tell mama,

i am a body of water

drowning with broken dreams

the face

of an orphan


whose sun walk into darkness


a frozen man smiles each time i enter mother’s bedroom

who he was and how he got there

i don’t know.

i was told, he left for Burma

and for long there wasn’t a hot or cold news about him

his broad jaw strikes me a lot

evincing the man, I was

as a child I thought mama loves photographs

but the frozen man seems to be the only hill she looks to

whenever lovers in the city garden coo

but why would she keep her heart close for a man

whose atlas is no where


This silence howls your name

the name you left to die in my skin

my ribcage now pines

rose flowers

you left with my orb

leaving shreds of

bittersweet pain

pains that talon

ripping through my sky like soot

here I am in Yemoja’s altar

a sorcerer

an enchanter

an owl that flies to be drench by rain

rain that makes night sleepless

that chases old demons for new

ones at dawn

your love for me is witchcraft

you, goddess of sex

you are Abiku:

winds that brings misfortune in



Ojo Taiye is a young Nigerian who uses poetry as a handy tool to hide
his frustration with the society.