Poetry by Dennis Villelmi

           ​yrjö jyske CC



My Last Letter To A Living Ghost
​
Has the whisper become sour,
As it has with the shout?
This gift of loss-
This gift of loss I have given you.
It’s something for you to munch on as you
Pace the gray gravel lot that is your
Temporary Purgatory.
I remember when we were youths
You’d hang out your bedroom window,
Practically like Satan cast down.
The predictable ‘Pssst!’  anytime you
Caught sight of me in the street.
It’s always been a peculiar way with me-
How I’ve valued not the friends I’ve had,
Rather, the “friends” I should never have
Had, And whom I’ve lost like God lost
Lucifer.
The loss.  The retreats, my choice sweets.
With you, I had a better quality of shadows
To retreat to,
After the rough rest-of-the-road that might
Lead me to the window from which to fall.
Why?
Because my ordinary time was like so many
Poorly written words through which a line
Was drawn.
All my angels and saints were crossed out.
The soul goading me is just so much yellow
Newspaper in my parents’ since neglected
Home.
It compels me to that gravel where
The filthy fifty-fifties like ourselves go.
Yes, we have Divinity’s undivided attention,
Yet, we prefer the rehearsals of our sins.
The whispers have indeed turned to vinegar;
But preferable to an indignant chorus when
Age comes to spirit us away.



Dennis Villelmi is the co-editor and interviewer for the dystopian and horror webzine The Bees Are Dead. He is also a poet of some note, having been published in such corners as Peeking Cat Poetry, DEAD SNAKES, Duane’s Poe Tree, Horror Sleaze Trash, and In Between Hangovers.  He is also the author of the chapbook, “Fretensis: In the Image of a Blind God” (currently out of print and in search of a new publishing home.)  As writing doesn’t pay the bills, Dennis works in private contract security.  He resides in the state of Virginia. ​