Night Out With String Bean by David Spicer

I knew String Bean for five years
before he knocked on my door
and confessed, I don’t want
to frighten you, but I’d like
to gobble your blood. See, I’m
a Norwegian vampire. Dawn
strangles me after the last drop
of red wine trickles from my teeth.
OK, I answered. In nightshirt
and stockings, I didn’t hesitate,
recognized delusional gleams in
dead eyes. His skin’s patina
between pale and paler, earrings
little buckets hanging from his
lobes, hands displaying long
nails and thousand-dollar banknotes.
Drape your cloak on, Dolphin,
let’s find a bedroom victim we
can seduce. Lonely in my ransacked
castle, I craved orgasms to shake
and tumble my bones. If you’ll wear
your eyebrows, we’ll scope out the
sexy blacksmith in the canteen,
I suggested. Searching for martyrs,
we opened the door, whisked
into the night, and rattled our
keys under the hungry moon.

David Spicer

David Spicer has had poems accepted by or published in The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Reed Magazine, Circle Show, Slim Volume, Yellow Mama, Jersey Devil Press, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., The Kitchen Poet, and elsewhere. He is the author of one full-length collection and four chapbooks, is the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books, and lives in Memphis, Tennessee.


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