———————————————————————————

the masters of this

listening to

a grateful dead

song stuck on

repeat

trying to

convince

myself my

father’s hate

is not my own

isn’t social media

outrage just the

latest version of

a circle jerk

go lay in the

sun and see

if the grapes

become raisins

we used to be

the masters of

this

then,

we trained

our own

replacements

now,

science fiction

is reality

i guess i should

have played

dungeons and

dragons after

all

—————————————————–

too close for comfort

let’s go dancing

on the moon

drink until the

fireworks get

too close for

comfort

steal some kisses

while there is still

time to love

i ache for your

beauty like a lost

soul that can see

home but can

never return

and with each

temptation the

ache only grows

depravity pats me

on the shoulder

and talks about

his long lost

friend, dystopia

i remember

a teenager

reading

bukowski

and thought

he had it all

figured out

he couldn’t see

all the traps

ahead

now stuck,

realizing time

is all that is left

————————————————————–

memories of fifth street

i can close my eyes

and hear a saxophone

playing like the seventeen

year old trapped inside

of me remembers chain

smoking cigarettes and

asking drunks for a sip

i would often get lost

in the stunning eyes of

some woman thirty years

older than me

it never turned out well

drunk husbands aren’t

willing to listen most

nights

the best nights i would

smoke clove cigarettes

and the saxophone would

wail like all the greats

were back in town

stay quiet

be the mystery

develop the ability

to shut the fuck up

some of the best

advice i ever got

most end of the nights

fables about death

would entertain the

younger me

now, i’m living

them out

——————————————————-

my next words

she walked in

with a frilly little

thing on

i got behind her

and whispered

now, there’s something

i would love to take off

with my teeth

she turned around

i was waiting to

be slapped

instead, she licked her

lips and asked what else

can you do with that mouth

i got her a drink and

we sat down at the bar

i knew i better choose

my next words very

carefully

——————————————————————————————–

flattery

and here comes

this model

come fuck me

heels, fuck me

eyes, an ass to

fucking die for

she’s a flirt, i’m

a poet, of course

there was fireworks

i’d love to tell her

about the suicide

poems while she’s

sitting on my face

she laughed

asked for another

ten dollars to keep

the conversation

going

i’m a glutton,

will pay for

flattery

hell, there are days

where humans don’t

even speak to me

who am i to thumb

my nose at someone

saying they like a

man that is creative

and daring and so

descriptive about

what he would do

with his tongue

in all the places

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Misfit Magazine and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days betting pennies on baseball and soccer, while taking care of his disabled mother. He still has a blog, but rarely has the time to write on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)