A Devilish Matter of Disinvitation

Carl E. Reed

Bedbugs bite, damn dust mites choke

the weak & strong alike;

mice leave fecal relic pellets

& snakes are quick to strike

from out the basement dark; I fear

wolf spiders in their webs;

red-orbed rats have scampered ’cross

this bald-pate bleeding head.

These chattering teeth are castanets,

eyes bloodshot—wild with shock;

I bought bait, & traps, & bleach, & guns

but one thing I forgot:

the paperback Necronomicon

in a spin-rack at Wally’s Drugs;

I summoned a demon that scrawls on walls

slams doors, & ignites rugs.

For a lark I chose to call from hell

a dagger-horned, cloven-hooved

fallen angel to serve my will—

but oh, it fain behooves

a sorcerer to know how to send right back

a hellfire fiend called up

from out the blackened, sulfurous pit!

Now I don’t dare interrupt

the goatish, crimson, bat-winged beast

that hovers above my bed

scratching, cackling, glaring, muttering:

I wish this milksop dead.