Monday, December 9, 2019

number 2.




her words 
were like a flamenco guitar solo
put into verse
and as I watched her talk
once again the heavens opened
the sun looked down on the two of us:
my angel and her hellion 
locked in a deep conversation
too philosophical
that even the gods couldn't comprehend.






cut off.




no more dick pics
and cunt shots
she has cut me off.
she tells me I am poison
but her venom is stronger.

no more violations
and midnight molestation.
no more pleasure comes from the pain
and as I lay on the floor
breathless
I am filled with the desire
to destroy the beast that has consumed me.






she dominates.




she dominates
possesses my soul
she devoured it just last night
as I slept, dreamt.
everything is sexual
everything succumbed to a puddle of lust.

she destroys men for fun
to feed a deep hunger
and I am her next victim
willfully I fall further
into the pit
I don't feel the need to find my way out
since I know I will not succeed
so I sit silently
hoping someday she will let me walk free.

she dominates
with unbridled passion
like a drug
she crept into my veins
and as night approaches
I lay down impatiently
anticipating my next fix.






she waits.




she waits on the couch
phone in hand
sitting quietly, anticipating my call
and her body is longing to hear my voice
wishing I was there to silence her lust
to touch her
to place my hands between her sex starved thighs.






awake.




awake from your nightmare sleep
life is passing you by.
all the hangovers
the wild forgotten nights
stoned, all alone in a crowd
helps to feed your need
for seclusion.
you must break the mold
enjoy things as they were intended
to be.
this world is filled with pressures
anxiety and the need to find a chemical substitute
for loneliness, insecurity, unhappiness.
so go to a concert, a fair
any social event
observe, experience, embrace the negativity
for once in your life.
you can always start again with the drink
tomorrow.

Keith Wesley Combs
late at night
 
give me an old
black woman
that likes a
good glass of
scotch and to
listen to the
blues late at
night
 
we'll shoot the
shit for hours
and hopefully
one thing leads
to another
 
and i'm rolling
back the years
one thrust at
a time
----------------------------------------------------------
someplace tropical
 
shaking hands
 
the threat of
snow in the air
 
yet another winter
wondering about
money to pay for
heat, food, whatever
will break down
in this old home
 
the kids want to
send me away
 
someplace tropical
 
i'd rather die
where
i'm comfortable
 
where i spent all
this blood, sweat
and tears
--------------------------------------------------------------
the scam artists
 
i laugh at
how creative
the scam artists
are getting these
days
 
they still have
the misfortune
of catching me
on the wrong
day and facing
as much hell as
i can muster at
the moment
 
of course, the
rare real person
gets caught up
in the bullshit
every now and
then
 
i've stopped
apologizing
for it
 
the sane ones
understand
----------------------------------------------------------------
a sticky night in new orleans
 
in my dreams
 
it's a sticky night
in new orleans
 
both of us hammered
 
neon souls dripping
in the middle of
the street
 
she kisses me
 
and suddenly
my haunted soul
lifts ten feet off
the ground
 
one of these nights
 
these dreams will
start to resemble
reality
 
hopefully
---------------------------------------------------------
come fuck me eyes
 
the neon queen
flashed those
come fuck me
eyes last night
 
i told her she
tasted like
sunshine if the
sun was made
of the sweetest
juice known
to man
 
gum drops for
nipples and an
ass so inviting
 
i wondered how
many licks will
it take to get to
the middle of
her soul
 
a few more trips
down this river
and i will know
-----------------------------------------------------------
that old college try
 
there's a certain
hatred i have for
mediocrity
 
of course, being
poor, that's often
all i can afford
 
so, you make do
 
put forth that old
college try, even
though i only
went to college
for three days
 
thank god
my imagination
is at a level
unknown for
most mortals
 
it's the only thing
keeping me sane
----------------------------------------------------------
J.J. Campbell

number 2. her words  were like a flamenco guitar solo put into verse and as I watched her talk once again the heavens ope...