ryan quinn flanagan | going dutch

Going Dutch

There are mimes and nymphs
on stage
posing with half carved
and Asian pears
for ears.

It is supposed to be artistic
so everyone in the audience
pretends to “get it”.

I don’t get it.

I don’t understand why
there are mimes and nymphs
on stage
posing with half carved
and Asian pears
for ears.

I also don’t understand
why we had to pay $8/person
to see this.

There is limited lighting.
There is no sound.

The stagehand is asleep
on a large black
shipping trunk
beside the stage.

He is a fucking genius
out of time.

I wish I was home
jacking off in bed
to my saltine cracker Miss
America dreams.

A painted up fanny funbag
(limbs lost like Atlantis)
placed on a swing
on wheels
and rolled out for the
swimsuit competition.

There is no point to the talent part
of the competition,
of course,
they all have the same talent,
and that’s covered by the swimsuit

my little fanny funbag
represents Arkansas
or Tennessee
or one of those
someone greased ma pigs
with the Vaseline
war of Northern Aggression
where the grits come with corn bread
and God comes with the plate
and the war is still fresh as daisies
in raging shit-fed minds
of pitchfork apostasy.

But I cannot make it to Shangri-la.
I am here instead.
Standing here in hell, less than ten feet
from the stage
with my date
watching a mime ponder a split cantaloupe

The audience gawks with an enthralled
Their eyes are roaming leeches
that drain everything

The leading cause of impotence
is Humanity,
and the rest.

The one I have come with
is too young for me
in every way.

She has hands like Mussolini
and gold glitter
on both her cheeks.

We have gone Dutch,
so I only have to waste $8
instead of $16.

Just then
she leans in close
and says
isn’t this amazing?

I smile
and nod in the affirmative,
thinking of the little fanny funbag
between my ears –
waiting for me
when I get home –
resting her stumps against my naked hips
as I put it in
slide it in
where the mimes and nymphs
and half carved


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