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