the nature of the apathetic
the romantic notion
that the drugs will
actually help you
you give the doctor
a look
wondering about
the harder shit
he’s younger
understands the
nature of the
apathetic in this
part of the world
a free sample
is all his morals
will allow
it will have to do
an act of passion gone awry
he never saw it coming
a table leg, sawed off from
the dining room, upside the
back of the skull
he fell to the floor, could
feel the blood flowing
she then sat down on his face
his first thought was this isn’t
usually how our perverted
games begin
he quickly tapped her on
her thighs, their mutual sign
to get up
with each tap, she pressed
down harder and kept pressing
harder until the taps ended
she would later explain to the
police and the judge it was an
act of passion gone awry
no one bought it
thirty years to life in prison
his ashes still waiting to be
claimed at the funeral home
she confided in a cellmate
she drank too much liquor
one night and realized
she never loved that freak
this was the only way out
her drunken soul could ever
imagine
on some lost highway
another day in the doldrums
gleeful whispers of suicide
chaos and mayhem
they wouldn’t mind if i died
like this
broken, bloodied, fragile bones
scattered on some lost highway
bent spoons, wet matches
the sun hasn’t shined
for months
sometimes love likes to settle
gently on my lips and then
proceed to tease me to climax
and leave before ever letting
me know her name
i never fell in love with
a stripper
just a few who missed
their calling in life i
suppose
and once you get used to
being lonely
life becomes this long drag
off of an old cigarette
you’re lucky if there is any
taste left
drag me out into the rain
i always wanted to fall in love
with a woman who would drag
me out into the rain to go dancing
yank me out of my shell and make
me see the beauty of everything
that i found to be ugly
but as all these days have piled
into years
i can only suppose that such
a woman doesn’t exist
i look out the window
and watch the rain
loneliness cuts as deep as any
drug i have ever taken and on
some nights the child in me
just wants to feel the pain
to what little existence you are allowed to have
counting the years
since a woman has
told you i love you
and meant it is a kind
of torture reserved
for nights like these
a bottle of scotch
nearly empty
coltrane bleeding out
of speakers older than
you
these are the nights the
heroin has a certain taste
of just holding on to what
little existence you are
allowed to have
and it’s never the bleak
future that gets you
down
it’s simply that no one
cares to ever try to help
you up anymore
you have reached that stage
of life where everyone would
rather see you die than ever
be successful again
the largest chip you could
ever fucking place on your
shoulder
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is stuck in suburbia, waiting for the revolution. He’s been widely published over the last 25 years, most recently from Misfit Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Synchronized Chaos, Terror House Magazine and Winedrunk Sidewalk: Shipwrecked in Trumpland. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
RAMINGO! 