our hero tattooed in black lace

the shock of the news will
hit me hard given my love
and adoration for you
the overwhelming silence will
climb on top of me like a lover
from many years ago
the funeral home will be packed
i will be the one they are
shocked to see
i'll bypass the long line of well
wishers and head straight to your
modest, but not cheap looking,
i will slip you some heroin to help
you on your journey and whisper
into your ear
death never looked as beautiful
as it does on you
i'll kiss your forehead and slip
out the side door
satisfied in knowing that this
was the only ending that would
suit either one of us
but nothing will ever replace
the space, the face, the punk
rock grace, the new wave taste
of our hero tattooed in black lace
the demons will never chase
you again but your words will
haunt each and every one of us
just as they should

love, suicide and the bottle

staring out the window at
two in the fucking morning
a full moon trying to
penetrate the brisk night air
a faint breeze creeps in through
these supposedly shut windows
each second i stare out this
window i gaze upon a vast
canvas of nothingness
each second is another second
slipping away from two hands
that have grown sick and tired
of reaching for something that
may not even exist
two hands that are left wondering
when did control slip out the door
and into the waiting arms of some
fucking whore
i guarantee you i'll have to pay
someone to kill me for when the
time for suicide is just right, these
two hands will have long ago
given up on giving a shit
i suppose that will be years
from now but, i'd be
bullshitting you if i told
you i knew for sure
oh well...
staring out the window at
two in the fucking morning
time to drink myself to sleep
yet again

my dying wish

may your hatred
for me be as pure
as our love once
and please never
let either of them
ever die out

time ain't got shit on my bitterness

i think it was the way
you put your left hand
in your back pocket
when you smoked that
made me melt
or maybe it was how
your hair looked in the
hazy third shift labor
god i should be sleeping
right now light that
did it
it's been a few years
since i've heard from
and the memories of
you i haven't drank
away haven't driven
me to grab a gun
not yet at least
but don't worry
killing you will go
down on my endless
list of shit i just never
bothered to get
around to
not that you'd
actually care to
fucking notice
but anyways...

J.J. Campbell (b. 1976) lives, writes and dies a little each day in
Brookville, Ohio. He's been widely published in the small press, most recently in
Trespass, Zygote in My Coffee, Free Verse, The Blind Man's Rainbow and Thunder
Sandwich. J.J.'s most recent chapbook, "feel my disease" was published by
Scintillating Publications.

You can contact J.J. via email at jcampb4593@aol.com

2005 Underground Voices