Poem for my Desk by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Imagine my surprise
when the desk tells me
of the many horrors of the
sawmill

asks me to get this down
like a court stenographer

(that is how I feel sometimes,
the human fingers clacking away
after dark)

the clubbed seals of my mind
bleeding out
all over my shirt,
this page…

sleep is always your friend
when so many others
are not

crushing the larynx
of hanging birdfeeder
song

yes, tree to desk,
I get it –
most traumatic,
your story will be written
then forgotten,
that is the way of things.

Everything moving on.

The dead bones of my body
on a necklace
barely worth rattling
for protection.

ryan-quinn-flanagan
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, Homestead Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Dead Snakes. He has an affinity for dragonflies, discount tequila, and all things sarcastic.
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