Apocalypse Not Now
Things don’t look so grim to me at this juncture,
the roving blood goons with veiny neck effort
and pillows for fists,
believing there is strength in numbers
just as Vegas and the warring armies have taught them,
that fear can be mastered like an obedience school dog
off the chain,
and concealed weapons if
that fails.
Myself, I prefer a pair of mating ducks in the inner harbour.
Male with proud felt green head.
The female by his side and the young ones in tow.
Or a leaky faucet that refuses to fall in line.
Staring out of windows, I see windows staring back
at me.
Underwear friends
with spider veins for legs
so you know the fangs of pet store tarantulas
are real.
The Public Has a Right to Know Nothing
that is why it is the public
and the rest of it is
private,
but such blanket statements
from the blubbery populist blowhole
go over exceedingly well with
the idiot masses
which is why that fabricated argument concocted
by marketing
as to whether a Crisper was a chip
or a cracker
did so well
according to the people
down in accounting.
Axiom Reel
cut the room
cut the floor
spark an axiom reel
hard the hat
hard the landing
tell that bloody
pilot Turbulence
to land this role
nobody wants
or ever
asked
for.
The Hunt for Hairy Movember
I have grown over four inches in the past calendar year.
All horizontally.
My white whale of a belly swelled and distended
and alcoholic
as though some handsome shoe polish messiah
could be cut right out of me.
I have been practising my breathing.
Inhale then exhale, seems simple enough.
No more difficult than the divvy up of pub grub
chicken wings on the fly.
While Norway tracks me down.
And Japan readies her harpoons.
I was never long for this world,
but this is getting
ridiculous.
Duty Free
Quite simply unaccustomed to safe-cracked whistles,
all stock yard light shows
of the immersive disk drive blow up
queen shaved down into one final
ball of incendiary thunder
under silly perched aggrandizement,
and knowing what I know now,
I would have never sat in the airport
that long
in plastic blue bucket seats
watching clean shaven men drag their
entire lives behind them,
rushing to catch connector flights
onto places with other blue
bucket seats.
Kicking Cans
Kicking cans around long enough,
there is always the threat of botulism.
Explain this to your schoolyard bully
and they will punch you in the head
a little extra
for making them feel
stupid.
There is no advantage to being smart
until you are out of school and 85,
old enough to just not care
anymore.
The world will always be stupid.
With or without you in it.
15 Bucks
for a working DVD player
seems quite the deal
and we drive down to this
apartment complex
along Mississauga Avenue
and sit in the parking lot
waiting for the boyfriend
to come down.
Some young kid is smoking by the entrance,
so we get out and approach.
Asking if he is the boyfriend
and he says he is.
And he hands us fifteen bucks from his right pant pocket
and we give him the bag.
As we drive away,
the missus tells me she is glad
I came with her.
It is the first of the month
and the squirrely junkies
are looking to
score.
And I tell her it reminds me
of buying drugs back in the day.
Strength in numbers,
I get that.
Ghost Shows
I’ve seen those ghost shows
where the orbs of light fly into people,
I am not some hermit.
I have a local cable service provider.
My shrink does not believe in ghosts,
so I do not believe in ghosts:
go along to get along, right?
And I am sane as folded towels in the shape of dying swans.
I have not laughed at my own armpit farts
in years.
A learning curve, sure there is.
If you are intent on learning.
Don’t the blowjobs of university wind tunnels
seem way too easy?
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
My homeland.
In my homeland
Why pains ranges like a burning fire
And tears is what it requires
They said men don't cry
And I held it up, burning inside me
In my homeland
I have been through hell and back
And my eyes had become tears bank
Where I try to cry, and the word rang
Tears is a weakness,
In my homeland
no place to live
Terror has put on her garment
Beckoning on the emissaries of death dancing to the beats of herder's drum.
Like grief, pain feed the state of taraba.
In my homeland
The frightening gloom of darkness
Loom silently in the starless skies,
My homeland, filled with heartless savage
My homeland, on the footstool of brain less bastards.
Dear, my homeland
I fear for my life and future
For the infants yet unborn
I fear for the lives of youths
Who's future bases on strive.
Dear, my homeland
I fear for what life has in store
The more one lives, the more he dies
It's not a bed of roses,
Where one lives in comfort and love.
I fear for my homeland
Where peace and tranquility are imagine.
Innocent blood decorate our land,
Yet, we have been possess by orgyloving and bloodthirsty evil spirit.
With a loud thunderous voices.
When can we have a better homeland?
A better homeland,
devoid corruption,
Free of greed.
My homeland.
In my homeland
Why pains ranges like a burning fire
And tears is what it requires
They said men don't cry
And I held it up, burning inside me
In my homeland
I have been through hell and back
And my eyes had become tears bank
Where I try to cry
God’s heart is a Giant Tear: June 1, 2022
I was sad to see Louie’s close, I thought to myself.
At Lands’ End, today’s destination journey.
A place where I can find myself again.
One of the most beautiful sites in the world.
Where the ocean meets the land.
I come here to ground myself and breathe.
This is where the butterflies flutter and lizards sprawl, as families saunter,
near swallows and chickadees, pelicans, and gulls.
Ocean waves leaping and lapping.
Today whales are reported, by a woman with two tawny and white dogs.
She lets my Bella sniff her dogs, while she tells us of the whale spouts sparkling near the surface. “Now I see!”
I see the blowing just at the surface. Some spouts shoot up out of the waters,
others just to the surface. You can see the pod is swimming around the very blue waters.
The Golden Gate Bridge stands so tall and proud amidst the 1000-year-old Cypress trees!
Three young girls, led by a mother, stand on the large cement wall bench to take a selfie.
All giggles, for today we have a clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge. The cars look like matchbox cars.
These are just some of the things our children taken away too soon, by angry teens, barely men, bearing arms.
Shooting at our children, Killing them!
Now, these children will never see these things I see.
Lost to us before they had a chance to choose where, they would journey,
on a free day like today. June 1, 2022.
The birds chirping; sounds to me, “Please, please, don’t shoot.”
Over and over. Yes, here at Lands’ End.
Over and over, they sing it again.
I look up to the clouds. I see God’s arms caressing, admiring, perfectly, tiny babies in the clouds created by He.
He admires each one before they are sent here.
Yet, these days, God’s heart is a giant tear.
Tongi
by
Mehreen Ahmed
It was a glass room, Tongi. Literally, a room which was made of glass built on stilts in the far shade of a village pond. The pond's algae reflected its green on its glass walls. On rainy days, slanting rains fell on it and left its droplets to slide down the glass. Tongi ghor, or Tongi room, as it was often called was also a lover's den. Under a waxing moon, love glided here in the moon's full view—light streaming through the glass. Only an insider was privy to its magic—only they could feel its real throbbing, transforming romantics into yearning hearts—enchanting and transcending any barriers—a safe house for the insiders. This place knew no shame. Where love was not berated for breaking taboos. Its rhythms, a heartfelt, meant only for love—to hear and understand. Tongi was an insider’s bubble. As soon as lovers came out of the room, the full moon packed itself away under a river cloud and the bubble of enchantment broke. Social antipathy was let loose on them—off-limit to the socialites—this bubble belonged only to the insiders of the Tongi room.
Nacre
An irritant entered the body, Queen Nacre secreted aragonite and conchiolin in her castle's bedchamber of the deep seas which the Queen produced as a protective shield against invaders, she gave birth to the Mother-of Pearls and embedded it on its lucent pods within its hard shells, a defence mechanism, an impregnable wall, not understanding though, that this prized possession, was also the much-coveted object for the Mad Hatter and the Queen of Hearts--the rulers on the land, who would go to any lengths to extract it by violating Nacre's fragile shells— the Trojan wall would fall at their feet, to bejewel an already existing ornamental neck of the Queen, more pearls for the Hatter's jewel in the crown, the Mother-of-Pearl the most precious survival mechanism taken and crushed for their pleasure, paradoxically an existential crisis, a double-edged sword—the very wall of protection was also Queen Nacre's nemesis, for her oyster subjects cried a rising death toll in the Garden of Pearls, however, who could not even conch, a sound off to the mermaids of the far seas whose aid of ancient callings could have frustrated the Queen of Heart's sea soldiers -- raiders of the Oyster Kingdom had this wayward annihilation on their conscious, but, one pearl made its way back to Queen Nacre's court and told her a story of obsession that a Queen on the land dissolved one of them, pearls, mixed it in wine or vinegar and drank it to impress her King--beautiful but idiosyncratic, thought Queen Nacre in a moment of truth.
Space
People stared opened-eyed at me, brazenly walked across to my table as I had my morning coffee, coming, up close and personal almost choking my breathing space, however, I didn’t move an inch, they didn’t either, as they wanted my table, finding tables was rare here at this time, my gut feeling— they were not only after the tables.
Protective
Oh my fucking God
I hope you know
I truly love you
Had your...
Physical and mental attributes
Listed and ready
To make a mockery out of
As I roasted you alive
Despite you hurting me
In ways no one ever had before
I still can't bring myself
To say these things to you
Invisible girl
No one ever noticed
It killed you
And when they did notice
They drove by and barked at you
Well baby if you think that was traumatizing
Then the things I could say about you
Would make you want
To take your own life
Of course you're not reading this
You ghosted me and
Don't give a fuck how much it hurts
Yet here I am
Trying to save your feelings
One more time
Just in case you ever look back
From the beginning till the ending
All I ever wanted was to make you happy
So I don't want to say anything
To make you sad and upset now
Just in case you ever remember
That I exist
Note: This story contains themes that may offend members of the LGBT community. We at Synchronized Chaos stand with LGBT and with all people in their quest to be treated as equal human beings. At the same time, we don’t believe Amos Momo Ngunbu intended to harm anyone with his writing as we think it came from sincerely held religious or other beliefs on his part and concern for the welfare of teenagers. That said, there are different ways to interpret religious teachings on same sex relationships (as well as church-state separation). We invite readers, if they wish and feel comfortable, to engage Amos with reasoned and compassionate discussion in the comments.
Rose, growing up as a child, who lived with her parents in the 70s, was a daughter to Mr. and Mrs. Miro.
Her ambition was to become a medical doctor within the next decade. Decent she was, and schooled at the Don Bosco Technical High School, located in Sinkor, Monrovia, Liberia. Her beauty was like a symbol, crafted with words, that almost everyone could read, through which to get their way out.
Rose was admired, by almost everyone, in and out of her school.
Regardless of her beauty, she was positive about her future and never wanted it to be disrupted, with anything else. She was satisfied with her living standard, regardless of her parents' condition.
During the next academic year, there came a newly enrolled student in the person of Lesia, who entered the school with the mindset of initiating young girls into lesbianism and prostitution.
She entered the school with a very high dress code. Her beauty flattered everyone, both instructors and students. She initiated a lot of girls.
On a bright Friday morning, during the day of sporting activities, Lesia went on the campus, with a very high dress code that turned the eyes of everyone.
Contested for miss and came out with a shining color. She got her talent from the dark world, for which, she never lost in any competition.
Suddenly, her talent drew her attention to Rose. She ignorantly saw her to be a good person in nature. She got closer to her with the mindset of achieving the positive best from her.
In no time, she was initiated into the dark world. Rose, who was a great and serious student, became to misbehave and mislead people on campus.
Everyone was shocked with her behavior. Her name was the song sung in the ears of everyone.
Nakedness became her fruit for success. She no longer listened to people, both on and off campus. She initiated most of her friends too. There was a boy named Thomas, who she tried to initiate, but failed, due to his time spent in the presence of God. She tried and tried, but failed.
Thomas kept getting closer to her, just so he could regain her soul in the presence of God. He did all he could and later captured her soul to the presence of God. She recovered from the ancient world and got to her normal stage. Thomas and Rose later married and left for the Netherlands.
“SCREAMING MIME”
I should speak out when they abuse
This pasty-faced artist who decided to choose
Being trapped in silence with make-up queer
I may not speak, but I can hear
The taunts, the insults, and the hate
Towards street performers who refuse the bait
Of ridiculed anger through vulgar gestures
Believing performance is a continuing semester
Of learning to grow within painted smile
Ignore the assholes, concentrate on the child.
Who laughs with joy or open-mouthed wonder
Yet tosses no coins as my stomach thunders
Breaking the silence, begging for bread
My intestinal rumblings plead to be fed
A steady diet of human compassion
Through the clinking of coins in an appreciative reaction
To my ancient art and enduring hunger
Selling myself like a common whoremonger
Hoping to satisfy an insatiable crowd
In tight fitting Spandex, a seductive shroud
Ignoring lewd sneers at my exposed anatomy
That I've twisted and stretched in hopes it would flatter me
As my muscles contort and my body sings
A silent song that once entertained kings
Miss Unity is a writer and drag queen from upstate New York. Her essay collection ‘Who Killed Mabel Frost?’ will be published by SF/LD Books in 2023. Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York’s Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. His latest book is the flash fiction collection, Hunger Pains (Buttonhook Press).
