if i was an optimist
i can see in her eyes
she will kill me one
of these days
if i was an optimist
i could see a future
a house, children
playing with the
dog in the yard
i’m not an optimist
i see a drained
checking account,
credit cards used
without my knowledge
and the threat of more
violence if the other
demands aren’t met
soon
when an old woman
my dirty brain laughs
when an old woman
checks me out
even if it’s just for
a second
i can’t help but
wonder if i would
it’s been over
a decade
of course, i would
single in my forties
the darkness inside of me
kills everything it comes
into contact with
at least that is how i’m
going to think of being
single in my forties
i could lament having
no fucking luck with
love or i could drink
away the pain
i’m sure there are better options
but i never set foot in
anything resembling
a better life
i’m comfortable in filth
despair and the usual
sad moments of agony
and pain
sunshine gives you cancer
and there is no gold at the
end of a fucking rainbow
beethoven plays in the distance
all the angels are out of mercy
they look out of place here
anyway
unlock the case and load
every ending is a new beginning
or whatever bumper sticker
works for your ending here
but as the light fades
she was the kind of woman
that had already lived a
couple lives before you
walked into hers
she never wanted to
fall in love and you
never wanted to like
the pain
but as the light fades
like a soft angel peeling
her lips off an old soul
she’ll teach you the
horrors of gin
of cocaine after three
in the morning on an
empty stomach
of what happens to
the hero in a land of
assholes and disease
depravity never lets
the sun shine
be careful the first time
you see your shadow
one false move
and she’ll haunt your
dreams until you die
no desire to even think
i remember
thinking i
was going
to die in
my twenties
when i was
a teenager
i never even
thought my
thirties were
even a
possibility
there was no
planning, no
desire to even
think it was
going to
happen
and now i’m
acing life in
my forties and
figuring out
how to die
while poor
indoors is the
best i can come
up with
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his revenge.
He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Record Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, and Chiron Review.
His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press.
You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights & Goodreads
