---------------------------------------------------------------------- flutter and here comes the old timer a blackout drunk in the city that never sleeps has stories for days about hookers, heroin and whatever happens to flutter into his mind i egg him on from time to time, especially when he calls oprah the anti-christ how many black women have fucked you over? i stopped counting in the late fall of 1979 like a lost dog, he wears those puppy eyes like a scolded child ok, let's go to the bar he lights up a smile we get to the bar and ask for two old fashioneds and a shot of everclear the bartender asks are you two celebrating or looking to die the old timer mumbles under his breath what is the fucking difference i pat him on the back, reassuringly tell him there isn't any --------------------------------------------------------------------- imagine the fame watching the news recently has me rethinking all those dreams when i was a kid and i wanted to kill my father i sip on a whiskey and imagine the fame love letters on the wall of a prison cell, cracking jokes of course i try not to think who is claiming me as their bitch swimming in a river of apathy that never ends whatever greatness ever touched me has withered away by now a walking corpse a poem edited beyond belief even the shotgun in the corner has lost interest i think of my bed as a tomb and one day, i won't be jesus actually get to enjoy a few more hours of sleep ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- any sense of depravity a slow song as she rests her aching head on what is left of your soul it was never supposed to be this hard all the mistakes bad luck dressed as a devil in a three piece suit two dreamers left alone to suffer stretch a dollar past any sense of depravity this is what happens when the drunks realize a bon jovi song is never something to aspire to can't afford the good drugs anymore this is why you never burn any bridges with the homeless you never know ------------------------------------------------------------------------ when the holidays roll around embrace the madness like tomorrow is the hooker with a heart of gold some fantasy made up in a tarantino movie i suppose the nights get bleaker when the holidays roll around suicide is this tempting seductress showing just the right amount of leg she will give you a taste and you'll be fighting the urge the rest of your life i see the tombstones of my friends lucky fucks that made it out but who knows maybe some damsel in distress stumbles into my life i win a lottery or a ten team parlay and suddenly, sunshine is something more than just cancer waiting to happen ------------------------------------------------------------------------ something fondly sometimes i believe my death will solve everything and soon enough i will be forgotten my ego tries to make a point that the poems will last longer than any of us and there will surely be a woman or two that cries or remembers something fondly the realist in me laughs knows none of this matters or will come true the ashes will be spread into a flower bed where the dogs will piss every morning that part always makes me laugh fitting i always pictured my ashes being flushed down a toilet in a cocaine rage but pissed on isn't that far off hopefully the flowers will look good J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Yellow Mama, The Rye Whiskey Review and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights.
