Before I splash this booze on you
and toss this match in your lap, whimper,
squirm, or beg, lover, I don’t care.
You can’t scare me anymore, those
knuckles no longer threaten my core.
If I wanted to fuck with you, I’d pose
as a guerilla cousin from Compton
and swing from the apartment balcony
like a drunk monkey and choke you
on the bloody carpet inside. I’m not your
battered bitch in a sexy satin blouse now.
I’d offer you a last freebie but I’m busy
cleaning out the safe before the cops raid
you while I watch a half-mile away.
Oh, I borrowed the pot and smack–
it’s for future memory loss.
I snatched the rain boots–they ooze
your slime, by the way–and switched
my fives for your wallet’s hundreds,
since you won’t need them after I barbeque
the skinny skunk you are. On second
thought, lover, hang on and scream louder
than you can, so I’ll hear you and cheer
from the mountain top of my new day.
David Spicer has had poems in Mad Swirl, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, In Between Hangovers, The American Poetry Review, Easy Street, Ploughshares, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Yellow Mama, Dead Snakes, and in A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Pushcart, a Best of the Net, is the author of one full-length collection of poems and four chapbooks, and is the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee.