deepundergroundpoetry.com
Backseat
I'd follow you. I would. Follow, I would. Down, deeper, down.
Past the six-step marker, the bones, thugs, and flies.
Past the twelve-minute lovers whose skin sears the pavement.
Long past the since-been jukebox flipped it's first record, quite
untimely, that I know of. 'Mancing and dancing, knees thrown
overhead in sleazed, swiped, foggy-shine cars. Past the church
that's burned, alone, by itself, humbly for thirty-three. For thirty-
three times it stood. I'd follow you. I would. Follow you I would.
Past the six-step marker, the bones, thugs, and flies.
Past the twelve-minute lovers whose skin sears the pavement.
Long past the since-been jukebox flipped it's first record, quite
untimely, that I know of. 'Mancing and dancing, knees thrown
overhead in sleazed, swiped, foggy-shine cars. Past the church
that's burned, alone, by itself, humbly for thirty-three. For thirty-
three times it stood. I'd follow you. I would. Follow you I would.
Published 7th Jul 2011
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7th Jul 2011 11:09pm
book-ends, rhythm, lullaby, loss, got the complete package here — like you wrote cause you had to.
