8 Orgasms Later the Love Child of the Octopus Sings.

Poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan Р Art by Andrew Sao


The path is the progression like birdseed

on its way to being eaten

and the spines of books are just tiny

inkblot men

lit firework cracking

into a shuddering cream corn world

and I share such sentiments

with this newest one

in bed

and she laughs

says I am crazy

like a clown without a face

as I roll her over

run my nails down

her back


while the green electrical box hums

and competing cats

circle in the



and my car sits silently in park

in the drive

like a naughty



on time




England Stole my Rain, and Now All I Can Be

is Happy


In line behind an old lady

counting pennies

when I have to pee

or stuck in afternoon gridlock

with a broken radio

and no air conditioning

I would love to rage

but all I can do

is laugh

as a flock of seagulls

crap all over my head

and a nail gun and a barefoot

become a reason to go to

the hospital.


Pregnancy scares elicit a chuckle,

meteor showers, a promise to soap and lather.

The apocalypse is tomorrow

and I have rose coloured glasses

glued over my eyes.


England stole my rain

and now all I can be

is happy.


A death in the family tries to help me,

but my tears are tears of joy.


Even parking enforcement

is taken aback

when I grab the ticket off the windshieldDSC_0013

smile ear to ear

and tell the fine young man

just out of school

in the starched blue uniform



drive safely.

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