The Child Molesters of Atlantis by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Our old place on the Queensway
was along a flight path
and every night the twinkling man-made stars
went in constant circling patterns
over the back alley.

I didn’t know what writing was
then.
I thought poets were cast in marble,
three centuries older than I,
knowing things I could never know.

I was working overnight
stocking shelves
at a large box store.

The neighbour across the hall
was Polish
and always drunk
and everyday he dropped his keys
then fell into his door,
passing out a few times
right there in the hall.

I drank with a Portuguese friend
from work
named Mark.

In his dingy basement bachelor
just down the street.

We’d start after we got off work
at 10:30am
and go until after midnight.

The guy upstairs dealt weed
so we always had a lot to smoke
as well.

Good times!

One night
another friend came over
with some crack
and we smoked that.

It smelt like Plasticine
but I felt good.

There were never any women.

Just good music
better beer
a lot of weed
and video games.

I wasn’t very good at the video games
so I drank and smoked
mostly.

I have always been good at that.

When I was fifteen
I used to bring a thermos full of rum
to Chemistry class
each day
so I had something to get me
through the afternoons.

It was like that famous Willie Burroughs quote
about how he shot smack
so he could get up in the morning
and shave.

It was a form of daily maintenance,
nothing more.

Now, I know what poets are, and what writing is
and no longer drink with Mark.

The stars in the sky
are just stars
until I decide otherwise.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a male gigolo for hire.  Presently residing along the sunny shores of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba where he spends his days drinking discount Tequila and accusing chemtrails of being "sky farts."  His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Under The Bleachers.