David Spicer Twisted Sister Halloween Twisted Sister Poetry

POEM — No More Halloweens!


Halloween snow flurries, and you’d

suppose correctly that everyone wore

white–cockatiels, ghosts, albino

crocodiles, a card sharp in an ivory

tuxedo. No monk, I fed chicken gizzards

to these tied-up little bastards. I felt

like they should have fish hooks. You

call that hogwash, but I’ve read

the Scriptures. They’re not a crystal

ball, but I have a Jesus crush. I did

a handstand when I read Paul

and a trampoline flip after Revelation.

Then it occurred: yearn for epiphanies

and they’ll untangle your rusty heart.

A telemarketer selling flags shared that.

Since then, I have a design: I don’t

screw housewives anymore,

when I exercise I listen to Chopin’s

nocturnes, and I’ve brylcreemed my

handlebar. Not a scuff on the cherry

floor, my grub’s granola, crookneck

squash, and flounder, and I own

three silver utensils. Yes,

I obsess, but you can’t classify

the Irishman I am. Call me

damaged, but don’t try to sway me.

I won’t surrender, and if you signal

with flares, giggles, or coughs,

no question, I’ll grab my last

clip and empty it into these

little fuckers. They’re witnesses.

You began this fountain of blood.


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.

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