Dumpster Fire Press is proud to present our first August release
Ryan’s Quinn Flanagan’s latest poetry collection EYE FLUSHER
A new RQF collection! Dumpster Fire Press! That’s all you need to know! Powerhouse poet Ryan Quinn Flanagan like a machete wielding cross between Bukowski and BB King does not bow down before the Eye of Horus but is the elastic eye of the divine god-king himself through portraits of ordinary madness in a realm of anything but sane,tempered by a shaky social contract. Your optic nerves will be flushed from a whole of delusion in this one, setting the dumpsters of stagnant existence aflame!
Never Shit Your Own Pants
Heidi came running down the hall
and said that Frank had done it again.
Amy was charge nurse,
responsible for the entire building.
And all the residents at the Guildwick
Home for the Elderly.
Sam was sent with Heidi to deal with Frank.
He did the same thing at least three times a week.
Went into other residents’ rooms
and stole their pants before shitting in them
and walking around the ward.
The smell was horrible.
Even for seasoned nurses and staff.
Ok Frank, pants off!
Heidi stood back to avoid the splatter.
Don returned from lunch break and laughed.
Ah Franky, I see there was an accident!
Frank said nothing.
An acquired brain injury had left him
Sam double-gloved and ran off to dispose
of the pants.
Leaving Heidi and Don to clean Frank off
and get him ready for bed.
Whose pants do you think they were this time?
Frank kept cupping water in his hands
and splashing it against the wall.
His wife had died six years ago.
Frank had no one now.
Just a power of attorney who lived
in a different city and couldn’t care in the least.
It’s pretty smart if you think about it,
Never shit your own pants,
Look in Frank’s closet.
He has at least twenty pairs of pants,
but never shits in any of those.
Heidi looked over to the large brown wardrobe
across the room and laughed.
So you think Frank is some kinda genius or something?
Crazy, not stupid!
I think you’re going to steal other people’s pants
when your time comes,
Heidi nudged Don jokingly.
I’ll have my own gig,
Shit really isn’t my thing.
Sam returned to check and see
how things were going with Frank
who kept grabbing at the towel
as Don dried him off.
I need you to go check on Natalie,
Sam told Heidi.
She’s up and screaming bloody murder again.
Heidi ran off to check on Natalie.
Amy was at the nurse’s station.
Having already begun the paperwork
on Frank’s latest incident.
She said I looked like Dimebag Darrell
and I told her
I didn’t know
who that was
and she told me
he was this big metal
who was shot
on stage during
and I wondered
if I looked
like poor old Dimebag
before or after
he was killed,
but I didn’t ask
because I wasn’t
a complete asshole
Drugless eyes on the space filter,
the people of Lemuria in my Komorebi head –
by penchant, by perchance, we need a byline;
some way to understand why the leaves have curled
like busy cigars, a question of light before
everything else, William Blake’s The Ghost of a Flea
forever on loan and that spunky hockey man
who calls teeth “chicklets” working the PA down at
the arena with a thrilling wasabi pungence:
my time in no man’s army is up,
night cap invitations go unanswered as fog horns
while splinters of a dying allegiance cut across
the lattice fencing, all fury melts away like
some sticky cold season lozenge.
we should find one of those
skin motels where half the known world
seems to park outside,
but no one ever stays.
One of those hobo joints
along the side of the highway
where the kid at the front desk
seems a little slow,
gives you a single mattress
and a scrambled television
for the week.
The curtains pulled over
like stand-in eyelids
you never once think of
A sink of brown water
to throw over your yellow
through the angry tartan
Her screaming drunken legs in the air
like a mess of migrating birds.
Hoffa Makes a Comeback
They just started looking for Hoffa again.
Searched this old Jersey landfill last week.
You have to think they got a pretty credible tip
to go digging through all that garbage.
Waist-deep in the worst from the worst.
Some guilty catholic deathbed thing
with the priest and the whole deal.
Or someone pulling a laugher.
Fucking with the Feds like so many times before.
Spinning yarns over the wire.
So they can hear their own voice
played back in court.
An army of news vans lined up out front.
All those long antennas.
Like fly-by-night water towers
of lipstick, ratings
I’ve Never Once Been a Man Who Didn’t Have it Coming
Some things are deserved,
the rest is peddled as dopey bait shop knowledge –
I’ve never once been a man who didn’t have it coming,
that slippery uppercut nestled under glassy jaw,
the book thrown at you with an entire library
of clunky adamant hate;
my filthy doomsday eyes forever on the blood shot,
a slave to skinless, boneless puppy mill science
so that the words become bodies,
one long annotated excuse
of cries and explanation.