Photo, 1943: Pop Learns To Whip Himself by David Spicer

The father is the scholar:
witness the million Nazis
in corduroy fishing near
the shuttle café. They sip
martinis this Spring, target
Muslim mummies for
their fresh food. The playboy
of them all, wearing only a purse,
flashes dead teeth that reflect
a toad footballer in the cinema.
The jury rewards him with blame
for his crime of snagging drugs
in the holiday bathroom. No parvenu,
he is the boss of the boors,
the legend of the slop, the big lie
in the dim headlights. This court
is a shell game of golf because
the tall knight’s goose is cooked,
his hat cut by the migrant twins.
He can no longer compete, bends
to play and punches the drag queen in
her moulten mouth, kicks her with a dead
toe, and divides the flag into triangles
before he tosses it onto the varnished dock of death.

David Spicer

David Spicer has had poems in Chiron Review, The New Verse News, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, Easy Street, Third Wednesday, Reed Magazine, Santa Clara Review, Rat’s Ass Review, Yellow Mama, Midnight Lane Boutique, Ploughshares, The American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. The author of Everybody Has a Story and five chapbooks, he’s the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. His latest chapbook is From the Limbs of a Pear Tree, available from Flutter Press.


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