S.P. Flannery


The cut pomegranate
turned rotten,
brown sludge
swimming with the seeds
of slime collecting
on the drain unclean;
not neglect,
but anticipation
to save the gift
for the right moment
when juices trickle
over the lip,
staining the shirt bleached
from early fall heat,
and the rind
wanes into red,
signal of readiness
to slice the equator.
Blood on the cutting board.
Blood on the knife
but inside the seeds,
their fleshy coat,
have gone bad;
waited too long,
and now must go hungry
because of daydreams.


All that remains is a bead of water,
of the man who plummeted to insane.

He displaced his anger against glass doors,
like a berserker of a Nordic saga.

A strike of remorse lacerated left fingers,
only under the influence would he show such force.

The world spun like a gyrating kaleidoscope,
as the ceiling dropped metallic ripples.

The man fell into revolving spiral arms,
after devolving to a hominoid gait.

>From acidic depths sprayed the distilled drink,
an elixir consumed with fervent devotion.

His artist's expulsion blanketed the reflective moon,
that cast on this scene refractory hollow rays.

Sanguine cheeks slammed hard into a marble slab,
he was out for the count with a forceful strike.

Warm hands removed him from his grave,
a serene coma they attempted to repel.

I then came by with rags and diluted ammonia,
and wiped away the remains of this defiant stand.


Peeled beets
bleed the color
of hard labor in fields,
factories, and houses hand-built
by need.

S.P. Flannery was born in LaCrosse, Wisconsin, and now resides in Madison. Flannery writes poetry and maintains a website about primates called The Primata. Flannery's poetry has appeared in Mobius: The Poetry Journal and is forthcoming in Lunatic Chameleon.


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