under amber skies saddled by the sadness a long cool breeze as the sun dies in the evening under amber skies the poet laughs at the mere thought of anguish discomfort a longing that is fond among these parts the whores are too expensive and the poet is too broken to enjoy it anymore a quiet death on the western front the right hand reaching for a gun instead of a towel ----------------------------------------------------------------------- burned for kindling random moments of genius scribbled down in a notebook you figure they will be studied or burned for kindling each will bring the desired effect never lived the life of luxury or pleasure or being wanted i was always the break glass in case of emergency at least he knows how to use his tongue in all the holes necessary not exactly a glorious life but plenty of stories that become little poems of experience that goes a long way in the right situation --------------------------------------------------------------------- in some mystical place atomic dog on the radio your soft brown skin running through my mind thinking of the way you taste and all the years that have escaped us i still have the occasional dream we bump into each other in some mystical place and we make up for lost time or maybe i'll be smart enough to just say i'm sorry and not expect anything good to come after that ---------------------------------------------------------- covered in snow a lonely tree at the bottom of a mountain covered in snow this is where the guilty go to die something bob ross would teach you how to paint a lonesome cabin ghosts galore bob never did tell you those details tread lightly my friend ------------------------------------------------------- visible for miles away the skies aren't quite purple but this haze is certainly visible for miles away like some sci-fi movie meant to scare the living shit out of you old people scared to venture out, especially with all the other diseases still fresh in their minds prayers for rain or whatever else aren't quite working imagine that i suppose this is revenge from canada for all these years of not winning the stanley cup
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where all the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Cajun Mutt Press and Misfit Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)