———————————————————————————
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)