Requests of a Betrayed Nobody
by David Spicer
I no longer pretend you’re my angel
from Paradise, no longer pretend
you’ll climb the ruffled ladder
of sunshine through the gates
of my rock ‘n’ roll Sunday.
So, slap your Kafka tambourine
across your knee under those crystal
trousers of yours, show me the scars
and seals of your forgotten Fridays—
if they’re good in your confetti
memories. Hire a choir to sing me
your anthem, but don’t sway
the suicide attempts, for I’m
stitching a quilt under the waterfall,
I want no guilt from you as you fly
your porcelain helicopter above
the milkweed and it crashes
weddings. I won’t play the flute,
I won’t roast the chestnuts
as you rearrange the rope around my
neck. Uh uh. All I want is this:
to roast you and your fellow pigs
outside your owners’ mansion
on the hill by the polluted river.
About the author
David Spicer has published poems in The American Poetry Review, CircleStreet, Gargoyle, Moria, Oyster River Pages, Ploughshares, Remington Review, Santa Clara Review, The Sheepshead Review, Steam Ticket, Synaeresis, Third Wednesday, Yellow Mama, and elsewhere. Nominated for a Best of the Net four times and a Pushcart twice, he is author of six chapbooks and four full-length collections, the latest two being American Maniac (Hekate Publishing) and Confessional (Cyberwit.net). His fifth, Mad Sestina King, is forthcoming from FutureCycle Press. His website is www.davidspicer76.com.
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