Motor Oil Through the Lemonade
There is motor oil through the lemonade,
razor invasion piranhas enter my field of vision,
the floodlight metropolis and payola queens
atop the charts – Francis Bacon spectres
streaking down a treacherous canvas,
that red-eyed seagull flock of swarm.
Two rings of twine for a tail-eaten snake.
There are craters inside the deep worm-turned earth.
A man of binoculars sets his sights
upon the devouring world.
Salt and Prepper
The call came over the radio
and Sgt. Prepper was on his way.
To that salt shack
down by the ocean.
Busted twice a month
and still open 24 hours.
Prepper wasn’t his real name.
The boys downtown knew he was a survivalist
and had their fun.
The more he told them
it was over, the more they laughed
with a dishonest life.
Prepper could be underground
in under 45 minutes,
who on the force could claim that?
Two medals of commendation
and a girlfriend with tin foil nipples.
The stars were really aligning.
Prepper didn’t even need to look up
to know.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author who lives in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work has been published both in print and online in such places as: The New York Quarterly, Red Fez, Evergreen Review, The Literary Underground, Horror Sleaze Trash, Rusty Truck, Zygote in my Coffee, and The Oklahoma Review. He enjoys listening to the blues and cruising down the TransCanada in his big blacked out truck.
