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Poetry: Matt Ryan

Unwed Eiffel Tower Pregnancy

I once grabbed an icicle hanging from the Eiffel Tower, pulled myself up and then started climbing until I found the perfect spot, the perfect position, the perfect hole, told this work of art of its beauty. I admired its shape, admired its gold, and then we made love—or sex, just sex, she called it. That’s all it was and nothing more. It, as in the Eiffel Tower, would not take my phone calls afterwards. It—I’m still talking about the Eiffel Tower—did not tell me that it missed its period, that it took a pregnancy test, that it was with part-child/part Eiffel Tower. It--that cold, cold Eiffel Tower--wanted nothing to do with me, the guy that she laid, or it, the egg that she laid. This egg was everything I’d ever wanted in an egg. I loved it, the egg, the best that I could, but still, an egg needs its mother; an egg needs sturdy architecture. For Halloween, the egg dressed up as a gray Easter egg. It was that sad. The egg, an admirer of Dr. Kevorkian, hopped into a skillet, scrambled itself, feeding itself to the Eiffel Tower, who for the first time in months smiled, its teeth reflecting gold light on the faces of tourists and Parisians alike. It, as in the mom of one dead egg, stood erect, proud of its singularity, with a full stomach and an empty womb.


Under The Influence Of Norman Vincent Peale

I’ll share the flecks of peppermint that I store on the tips of my fingers, give you the taste of Santa without the itch and the tickle of his beard on your forehead. I’m a fat man and you don’t have to sit on my lap to sit in my life. It is true that I give myself standing ovations, even if the only thing in PE that I excelled at was arm circles. That was passion, man, and to not brag but when I flap my arms, I can zap triangles into existence and pop geometric postulates into big piles of separate voids. Please avoid mentioning that you hate math talk. Don’t have the loyalty of that newly-issued zombie who wants to eat the same people he was travelling with just seconds ago. I won’t push you under the mistletoe, but I might stick my arms out, rotate them, rotate them some more, until I’m up in the air, with both hands pulling glitter out of my pocket. You should see how I make the rain sparkle. 


All Rights Reserved to Matt Ryan

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