#backseat
She makes small talk feel like a TED talk
She makes me feel like I know nothing at all
She’s too smart for me
I stumble when I speak
I’m drunk driving through this conversation
She is an agnostic angel
I’m a whiskey priest
But I only wanna get drunk off what she can teach
And I don’t know if she cares about how I preach
A lesson in pseudoscience in her backseat
Leaves us in an afterglow of creative problem solving
We agree to disagree
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 9:36 PM UTC
The taste of your bourbon sweet lips
in the backseat of my car
on a gravel road
that I haven't visited since high school...
If only we were driving a '91 Civic,
I would swear that I was 17 again.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
teenage dreams begin in the backseat.
fantasy and reality colliding among the crumbs pressed into seams.
frantic fingers roam the skin of the angel
who has given up her body for the sake of gratification,
and lips linger in the purple hues that ruin porcelain skin.
the capsule containing the burst of pleasure disappears the deeper they fall,
and eyes glaze over,
windows following suit as the world outside is lost to the fog.
moments of clarity intrude,
letting sounds of joyful times slip through.
intense heat swoops back in to suffocate the joy
and reminds them
rouged cheeks await his lit eyes.
passion follows them through their journey across the sea of the backseat,
guiding them to their final destination of a complete release.
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 7:24 PM UTC
Walking on top of muddy grass I head to my car
Open my rear car door and I see shambles mountain.
Papers fall from my backpack gum wrappers sprawl out
Half-empty plastic water bottles on the floor
I throw all the trash into a white plastic bag
As I dump the filth into the bag my clothes appear
Underneath the heap of unwashed clothing
Lies a bible in the backseat of my sedan
Its blue paperback cover is bent out of shape
Crumbly creased pages fan out like clipped angel wings
The book has sunk into the grey lumpy leather
Dust coats the molded edges of the scuffed pages
I pick up the book and clean it’s raggedy cover
With the bottom of my white-t shirt, now it looks fine
Flipping through each of the old pages I wonder
Why did I leave it in the backseat of my car?
I look at the disorganized landscape and sigh
It all comes back to me as I rub on the binding
Up and down on the tattered spine, I see my church
Inside the church laying on a tabletop counter
Is the backseat bible, my hand grabs it and I leave.
Both church and daydream, the book sits softly in my hands
All of a sudden my cell-phone plays an oldie
I’m late for the movies with my friends, I close the door
Jumping into the front seat I tell them I’ll be late
My seatbelt wraps around my body clicking in
In the passenger seat I place my bible beside me
I pull out of my driveway, and drive in a new direction
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
you've got me feeling
light headed
like some kind of coke freak;
dizzy,
but i'm not drunk
and i don't want to be.
i want to
lay in the back seat of your car,
weave my hand into yours,
and make you say my name
as if it were a bible verse.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
(hi, you reading this. I would love some edits and help on how to make this better, thanks so much!)
The air feels like
the backseat
of an old car
that’s been sitting
in the sun
for too long,
and the white,
gunky sun lotion
is sticky and
slippery
on clammy,
red skin,
sweating under
the heat
of the sun.
The same sun
that spills lazily
over the horizon
each morning
to be mopped up
by sandy beach towels,
as the day closes to an end,
each day after another,
melding together
in a band of
memories,
then neatly tucked away,
under old yearbooks,
and faded
photographs,
only to be pulled out
months later
over clusters of sleeping bags
and a flashlight
that’s almost dead.
No longer important,
just another summer
gone by,
the next one
will be just the same.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
The countless nights of being taken ever so uncomfortably,
fogging up the windows drawing cheesy arrows
stuck through hearts with our initials
in the condensation of our ****** tension.
Unfulfilling menaje tois cuts right through any arrowed hearts.
Sat dripping blood and juice,
"Don't get it on the fabrics...I'll come back with a towel."
You said.
I sat there
in too deep.
Staring at the bag of thrift shop,
sports flags,
my blood dripping from my fingers
to my thighs,
in your backseat.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC