Three Poems by Dennis Williamson

Late Rain

A body that wasn't meant for anything,
But to serve as a furnace. 
Everywhere I've taken on a job it's been the
Gathering of gnats. 
Is there no relief, no Rx, for the calendar of the
Rewritten Beelzebul?
It's not enough to be a son of the God of Scraps.
I suppose my crisis awoke as I was leaning
Over a breakfast of bacon and burnt toast. 
Then, was it madness at 8am, or did the kitchen
Wallpaper really turn from floral to a "Dead Man's Hand?"
I couldn't eat. 
Nor could the soothing sound of forecasted rain come
To me; !ike the sky refuses to leave an impression of itself
Anywhere near me.
I don't feel well at all. 
Bad food and bad scheduling.
This sickness is the struggling to tailor my "life" to the
Lord Regardless ' theme for the time being. 
Back to bed.
It's the late 3 o' clock Bethesda that gets me going.
Nothing to make you feel more alive than when you're
Drowning in a heavy late rain.

What the Devil Grew In Eden

It's saying something obviously when you
Have to die first to be taken seriously. 
Pluto, bathed in blue light, never as the rule
Listens to the living.
And it's only YOU that's a suitable tribute when
You're placed comfortably in cold storage.

I can smell yesterday's cooking on my bedsheets:
The olive oil and bell peppers. 
These scents of my hurried cooking are all I
Have of heaven. 
But at the same time, these angels of ingredients
Stalk me as if they were wolves in hobnail boots.
Their teeth pierce and burn deep until I can only think of
In footprints of homegrown onion and garlic. 
My eyes tear up as I cut Vidalia;
Is that the Garden beyond the waterfall? 
I can't tell.

Zap!

There must be a nest somewhere behind the walls.
That's another wasp that flew too close to the blue light.
It's carcass, stinger, wings, and all other ingredients of fear,
Are sizzling like it's in my skillet.
Satan's little angel singing the blue electric.
Ha!  To summon Whitman over sauteed mushrooms!
That might keep the unburied wolves at bay.
(I should add bay leaves!)
Zap! again.
I think that's also the sound of souls intent on entering
Heaven.

Dennis Williamson (also writing and published under the pseudonym Dennis Villelmi) is co-editor and interviewer for the webzine The Bees Are Dead.  His poems have appeared in such publications as DEAD SNAKES, Peeking Cat Poetry, Duane's Poe Tree, and Horror Sleaze Trash.  Mr. Williamson lives in the mountains of the American South.