the eyes of jumpsuit elvis
 
you can see the road
glisten with the rain
through the cheap
blinds
 
you swear the last
ten years of your
life have been lived
with one foot stuck
in the fucking grave
 
a woman once told
me i had the eyes
of jumpsuit elvis
 
i laughed hard
and whispered that
means i'm still the
fucking king baby
 
she didn't take that
as i was hoping she
would
 
that fine line of
arrogance and
confidence has
been tripped over
by many drunk
fuckers
 
and this isn't the
first night i have
worn cheap alcohol
 
that's why you never
wear the good flannel
in a place like this
---------------------------------------------------------
reminding the clueless
 
there's his old
guitar
 
all the blood and
sweat of a genius
soaked into that
old wood
 
strings nothing
but rust now
 
the demons walk
these streets at
night reminding
the clueless what
this place used to
be
 
some people
consume
nostalgia by
the spoon
 
others prefer
a damn shovel
 
the lost souls like
to go down to the
river and see which
brave fucker can
make it across
 
they have pulled
up three bodies
so far this week
-----------------------------------------------
one of the youngest ones here
 
the smell
of ointment
and decay
 
must be
tuesday
in the
waiting
room
 
my mother
is one of the
youngest
ones here
 
these other
ones are
hanging on
because no
one ever told
them it's okay
to fucking die
 
the one thing
i can guarantee
 
i will not be
one of those
miserable
fucks
--------------------------------------------
avoid any and all mirrors
 
snow in the
middle of
april
 
arthritis has
me on the
brink of
deciding
death is a
much better
place
 
the i love
yous are few
and far between
these days
 
embrace the
pain and avoid
any and all
mirrors
 
that man has
lost all hope
-------------------------------------------------------
from these suburbs
 
thoughts of murder
dance in the lost
souls of children
way too young to
know what it truly
means to lose
anything
 
but it's way too
comfortable from
these suburbs
 
to think anyone
understands life
on the streets like
the ones trapped
in that fucking
war

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is stuck in the suburbs, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Black Shamrock, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review and Yellow Mama. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)