ryan quinn flanagan | dump


Going to the crapper,
it’s a logistical nightmare;
there’s the question of moving,
bones and muscle and cartilage in swirling wild motion
the kicking off of the blanket
wrapped around you like a bug cocoon
and there’s the forced march down the hall,
ass cheeks clenched together
and ready
and there’s the limitation of toiletries
and pants around the ankles
and haemorrhoids
like an old
and persistent friend

and there’s the firebombing of Tokyo
and Christ
on a homemade cross
and carpenter ants
in long black

and the doorbell


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