by David Spicer
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I agree: we need to strike with force
and hijack our favorite fetish. Shout
Shit! at our divorce depositions, buy
a bus ticket to Buffalo, Wyoming
with our lawsuit checks. Before we leave,
let’s sing our inner rock songs, wear
rattlesnake skin cowboy boots, and tickle
Heather on her tasseled tits while she’s
corkscrewing an orgasm down the grind pole
in the dank pit of The Holy Moly.
We can steal a bottle of our favorite Korean
champagne, rub it against the sunburned
barmaid’s crotch and tell her the next
round is on her. We’ll film the janitor
in flagrante delicto and crunch her
cauliflower ears, and then raid the fridge
of its last slices of Boston crème pie.
Bug anybody we can, shout horny
come-ons in our black leather
dusters, and then label each other
The Fuck Geeks of Sauerkraut Doom.
Yep, let’s break the rules every chance
we get and feel great about it, let’s be
boys being boys and climb the prettiest
willow we can find and whistle-whisper
to her so sweetly she sighs and swoons
under the mighty, cloud-kissing moon.
David Spicer has had poems in In Between Hangovers, TheNewVerse.News, Gargoyle, The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Mad Swirl, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, Easy Street, Ploughshares, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes, and in the anthologies Silent Voices: Recent American Poems on Nature (Ally Press, 1978), Perfect in Their Art: Poems on Boxing From Homer to Ali (Southern Illinois University Press, 2003), and A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Best of the Net twice and a Pushcart, and is the author of one full-length collection of poems, Everybody Has a Story (St. Luke's Press, 1987), and four chapbooks. He is also the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee.
