By Ryan Quinn Flanagan
THE ETERNALS Discomfort is no friend to be called upon fruitless night, nor enemy pushed over slanderous blade, no cavernous mythical beast you may find on a mahjong table; even prison escapes prisoner sometimes. Rafters high as angelic asbestos, persistent cowlick wetted down by tongue and finger so often never yours, my failures collected like stamps, mailed off to distant corners. Odourless resilience, pristine fascinations – stiffened embankments of the eternals, the devil-less breath, cackled skullduggery in open doorways; what I have seen is not enough and what I have lived, too long – our final dark friend extolled like sweet shop candies to all. And this simple snap of graphite, more plumbago than diamond, sheen-less dullard of whoosh whoosh long coats... grant this pencil recycled hours; if not for mine, then perhaps that deep swelling culvert of your many obstructions was never for tears.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
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