Allergy Season by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The same single square of matted tissue
finding the nose again
allergy season, as though even the sinuses of witness protection
are leaking, a bus from plausibility to the golden armpits of Neverland Ranch
in under and hour
children in bed because they are tired, not because they are drugged
the paparazzi looking for meteor showers that towel off
in different area codes
and Hollywood pederasts do not live under rocks in meditation gardens
there is no ceiling to such ambitions,
the flyer arriving in the mail every Thursday
to give you options other than suicide
driveways pavers all habitual philanderers
acting out in a municipal sense
I see them because I am not blind
the same way you are blind,
standing in waist deep boat launch water
reimagining the Titanic,
the sternum broken like a personal and painful horse
calipers in the outhouse turning fetish into science –
I wish the animals of hunting season could shoot back at us,
that would make things so much more interesting;
Stanley Kubrick leaving movies so the cannibalism
of underwear models can end with edible
panties.

RyanQuinnFlanagan - UltraViolet Reading
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a happily unmarried proud father of none. His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as Your One Phone Call, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Dead Snakes. He has an affinity for dragonflies, discount tequila, and all things sarcastic.

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