mumbling sitting in a waiting room mumbling to myself this how the poems are made folks there's another guy sitting a few chairs over, he's looking at me i start to mumble louder, hoping he will move he got up and walked to the other side and they say i don't know how to handle being in public ------------------------------------------------------------ all the miles between them the devil is a soft-skinned mistress somewhere in minnesota the foul-mouthed madman is comfortable in his lonely life in ohio misery is all the miles between them there is little chance this will end up as a lifetime movie ------------------------------------------------------------------ stay quiet about the dirty dreams is it better to exist or live like a fool love a whore or stay quiet about the dirty dreams of the pastor's daughter make fun of the homeless or give them a new brown paper bag for their alcohol i often find myself sitting at a red light blasting music from a century or two ago i get some funny looks but every once in a while an old soul will nod in approval when that happens i immediately change the channel i stopped being a monkey for your attention years ago at least have the decency to make one believe there will be some money involved -------------------------------------------------------------------- darkness is an old friend i have lucid nightmares that creep into my thoughts in the middle of the day i can still taste my cousin's nipple in my mouth all these years later i still remember how cold the bathroom floor was darkness is an old friend but at times it likes to leave me crippled and begging for death one of these days i'll be free at last -------------------------------------------------------------- might as well throw out a few bombs never fall in love with the wrong woman the beautiful one with a great memory the type of woman that remembers every stupid thing you ever said in a fight especially the really cruel shit that was meant to hurt her because you thought well, we're never going to speak again, might as well throw out a few bombs those women will haunt your dreams until you die they will remind you of all that stupid shit you said at any moment they deem necessary i suppose this is what i get for remembering someone's birthday if i truly was the fucking asshole i am being accused of i certainly would have forgotten the fucking day
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He has been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, Cajun Mutt Press, Mad Swirl, Disturb the Universe Magazine and The Rye Whiskey Review. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)