Dennis Williamson


‘Coming off the fryer…careful! 
I’m a customized nightmare, 
loaded with all kinds of weird virtues 
that’ll make this prick recipient ‘s shrink wince, 
for fucking sure.  
Man, so this is what happens to damned souls- 
you’re not consigned to a circle or pit of Perdition, 
or nothing like that.  
That shit’s just to earn writers cash, or give pulpit gospel 
boobs their big break in the almighty salvation scam. 
No, you ain’t consignment; it’s assignment.  
You’re the cerebral bacon, my friend, lifted fully cooked,
like Minerva outta Jupe’s brainpan. 
You’re Ephialtes exalted.  
But it’s a one-time gig before oblivion; 
no appreciation from managers; 
no “Nightmare of the Month” recognition, 
or anything of the sort. 
One.  Time.  Gig.  
Repeating is defeating is the attitude.  
When I was alive, I believed with the best of them. 
Boy, I was a dumb fuck, too! 
You have to be stupid with credentials to chase those
Thankfully -yeah, I say thankfully- my wife’s fuckin’ 
My “best friend” woke me up.  
‘Course, I killed ’em:
shot ’em right there in that bed that I’d bought before our
wedding, along with the perfect house, the sedans… everything. 
AMERICA, baby! 
Then, I lit a cigarette, 
and held it so close to my eyes I thought I saw pitchforks. 
I couldn’t let the police take me in.  
Honestly, the thought of a trial that was just so much bullshit 
and Alka-Seltzer.  
The image of my defense sitting there going through files;
going through the motions, cause he knew I was fucked anyway.
So I finished my cig and plunged headlong down the muzzle of that 
Smith and Wesson.  
And ya know, I seem to recall that as that bullet was 
knocking down the walls in my head, I saw it all for what it was- 
it was never there, that “life” of mine.  
You see, you’re born, and then they blind you.
Everyone, from ya mother onwards.  
They explained it to me when I got here that it’s like the 
Somme offensive in that world:
between reflections and regrets.  
Dreams, and the stale wafer aftertaste when you die;
or, you fucking go crazy.  
The perfect liars laid to rest occupy the penthouses, while 
Honest losers like you and me hug fitfully in the trenches.  
Those who are living?
Well, living ‘s an act of attrition.  
They’re gonna send me up soon. 
For now I don’t want to do anything except
sit here and finish being sick. 
Hurry up and finish that cigarette, will ya? 
Here in Hell it’s so damn dark a cigarette ‘s 
might as well be an oil lamp.  
It’s my reflection in your eyes which sickens me. 
In the image of the Almighty, why are we so fucking greasy? 

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