Poetry from J.J. Campbell

Author J.J. Campbell, white man in a tee shirt with dark-rimmed glasses, slightly messy blond hair, and a mustache and beard. In a room with a dresser with candles, a skull and a rose and posters on the side wall.
Author J.J. Campbell
 J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He's been widely published over the last 25 years, most recently at Winedrunk Sidewalk: Shipwrecked in Trumpland, The Beatnik Cowboy, Terror House Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
big city

i have lived

in small towns

my entire life

a big city

will probably

swallow me


one day i hope

to know for sure

heartbreak written all over it

she had the kind

of smile that had

heartbreak written

all over it

i remember the

first time she

kissed me

i promised her

the world

she broke up

with me the

second she

realized i


afford it

i thanked her

on her way

out the door

i was in over

my head once


blood on the walls

she liked the taste of bourbon

and preferred songs about

murder from back in the fifties

she made you laugh every night

she drank you under the table

used to ask you if you thought

she was still the most beautiful

woman this side of the mississippi

you would always lie and say yes

she would smile and know you

had moved on years ago

eventually, you found her

one evening in the bathroom

asleep in the tub

blood on the walls

giving you the chance to

live out your dreams

you kissed her on the cheek

and reminded her that's not

how destiny works

something from kentucky

with a little ice she moaned

from the bathroom


just another night being poor

while approaching climax

hello darkness

the only friend

a lonely boy

ever needs

where the


tries to choke

itself to death

each night




she had the eyes

of a broken soul

collecting names

for her revenge

he was only

hoping to be

the latest


soon, glasses

of wine will

turn to bottles

and that lonely

boy will get

another chance

to be famous

a different class of humans

my father never loved me

my mother only does so

out of guilt

my sister is in a different

class of humans and rarely

gives me a passing thought

i've heard voices since

i was a child

done drugs since i was

a teen

and knew the taste of

my favorite liquor before

the age of ten

smart enough to graduate

high school with honors

and never take a fucking

book home for four years

college wasn't an option

since my father gambled

away all that money

i went to a factory where

all us misguided genius

stupid fucks are supposed

to end up

seven years later, a few

back injuries, a couple

abortions and two painful

car accidents i should have

died in

i sat on the porch of eighty

acres and knew reality was

going to fucking win again