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by Johnny Crimson

I knew your back could make that arch
as we floated on that giant barge.
Breaking branches from the birch
you let me hit you without charge.

Sure both of us could use some church,
before we become a funeral dirge.
Out of steel we might could forge,
the tiny shoes of your brother George.

For George fell through Sumter Gorge
and we searched for days as George was not very large.
At night we would march
through confusing paths that merged,
even the river was purged,
it was an endless search.

Only on sex do we spend and splurge,
no expenses too starch,
just whenever we get the urge,
we're just always on the verge.

You know we're still at large,
living in that big black birch
at the crux where all the low converge.

We smoosh our faces together as the dead march,
and the fire inside us sets off a depth charge
and we can no longer diverge in the drop forge
below where we used to disgorge and than emerge.

Grab my face and plug me in the wall!


Posted on 11/20/2012
Copyright © 2022 Johnny Crimson

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 11/20/12 at 03:58 PM

This is the kind of thing I'd love to hear live. The way it ducks and weaves is fantastic.

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