J.J. Campbell

by Horror Sleaze Trash on August 15, 2012


J.J. Campbell (b. 1976 – ?) has been around long enough to know better. He lives on 80 acres with his mother and a slew of stray cats. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Camel Saloon, ART:Mag, ZYX, Zygote in My Coffee and 48th Street Press. His first full length collection of poems, Sofisticated White Trash, is scheduled for release in 2012 from Interior Noise Press. J.J. recently started a blog for some fucking reason. You can find all of the musings of this asshole at http://evildelights.blogspot.com.

watched this lovely
european girl next
door type strip to
my favorite song
from the cure
i want to thank
her for giving me
something to replace
the image of the love
of my life telling me
to fuck off and walking
out of my life for good
the last time that song
played and it meant
if she only knew
how good it feels
to be able to replace
tears with cum
my own filthy language

when she said she wanted
to stick a dildo up my ass
i was a little embarrassed
to admit it got me a little
nothing to question
my sexuality
just that it had been so
long since a woman spoke
my own filthy language to
and when we had phone
sex later in the conversation
her imagination and mine
were like hand and glove
and instead of my mind
racing, falling too soon
or only focusing on the
impending inevitable
i decided to take a breath
and actually enjoy it
quite the concept
sadly it took me 36 years
to actually embrace it
but a few more evenings
like this and i may for the
first time ever in my life
look forward to tomorrow
thoughts on the death of a superstar

the voice of an
angel gone way
too soon
so sad and
tragic yet hardly
for when all else
the comeback
the new music
movies and tv
the best way to
revitalize a career
is to die young
for with your
death all your
wrongs and faults
are washed away
in the greatness
of what was and
could have been
well played mrs.
bobby brown
well played
that acid tongue

sometimes the dreams feel
so real but the mind fuck
of it all is they are only
cries for help
a hand falling underneath
the river’s current
these old bones have seen
too many of these dreams
come and go to give much
of a shit anymore
but there’s something about
that acid tongue that excites
the demons in this brain that
can’t say no
back to the days of cocaine
gun play at three in the
tint the windows and lean
the seat back
hat to the side
bass on blast
hunting the poorly lit
streets for our prey
just an old creepy guy

stuck inside
a groove
a melody of
and the sweet
caress of warm
lips in a cool
the way those
hips bring this
room to a halt
is mesmerizing
beyond belief
i wonder if i’d
ever be lucky
enough to get
a taste
close your eyes
and think of
someone else
i’m going to be
down here for a
she’s young
not old enough
to understand
that sometimes
the stories
are true

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