----------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
