racing to the bathroom

arthritis, a bad back, old bones

not the recipe for racing to the

bathroom to always be successful

and nothing says life like scooping

shit out of underwear and deciding

wash or put in the trash

a ratio determined by holes and

the waistband

the problem with shitting in boxers

is the debris is never contained

thankfully, this doesn’t happen

that often to me

often enough though that my inner

child laughs and grabs pen and paper

———————————————————-

long conversations with lonely women

muscle relaxers and whiskey

must be a saturday night

remember when the liquor

would flow like wine jesus

made

i suppose i have closed

one too many bars in

my life

had long conversations

with lonely women

who obviously had better

choices than me

that isn’t sour grapes

just reality slapping the

shit taste out of my mouth

yet again

one of these nights

i hope to get so damn high

i forget the first thirty years

of my life

i figure such a conquest

will probably take a needle,

a spoon, a lighter and a little

luck finding a vein

————————————————————-

regardless

a beautiful woman

told me if i believed

in god, my mother

wouldn’t have so

many health problems

i chuckled

asked her if she used

daddy’s trust fund

to get those new

tits

she walked away

disgusted, i enjoyed

the view nonetheless

the tooth fairy is dead,

santa is on strike and

reality is dying by

the second

this world is on fire

and we are doing

nothing but whistling

in the graveyards

hope still exists in

some little corner

of this fragile mind

a soft beauty swears

she will rescue me

from all of this one

day

promises, promises

a fleeting echo of pain

we were all abused

by someone

regardless of wealth

or god or any existence

of sanity

———————————————————–

and what is never coming back

paralyzed with fear

every step a reminder

of what was lost

and what is never

coming back

no need to apologize

we will be dead soon

enough

i can hear you crying

yourself to sleep each

night

these are the nights

where i wish the pain

pills were better or these

drugs were actually strong

enough to take away

everything

didn’t think the majority

of my late forties was going

to be spent cleaning up shit

and piss in bathrooms

but alas

there is the life of a poet

knowing the roses grow

better in shit and learn to

enjoy the prick of every

thorn

———————————————————-

left behind to die

it starts as a dull ache

eventually, it overtakes

the body

there is no point in crying

prayer gets you nowhere

left behind to die

there is no other way

to sugarcoat this bullshit

broken bones

shattered soul

a lonesome saxophone

wails in the background

try to find a vein in the dark

there used to be this neon soul

that would wander in and out

of your life at the oddest times

that soul has left

just like the rest of them

another night to drown

your sorrows in a dry

county

i guess the bath salts

are what we have left

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in the suburbs, probably forever. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl, Yellow Mama and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days taking care of his disabled mother, wondering which of them will die first. He has a blog, evil delights, he sometimes writes on, given a few free seconds here and there. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

---

https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet