Where The Rubber Meets The Road

I’m still writing, of course. You’d think one kind would naturally dovetail into the other, and if you were me, you would be wrong. I present this as the sort of waste of time I engage in: a fake song (that will most likely never be put to music) about a fake couple (who will mostly likely implode) for a fake band (that isn’t as good as I want them to be) in a story (that has a .01% chance of ever being published). I think I write almost twice as much material about the story as I do in the story.

The War

She puffs out her lip like a hitchhiker’s bruise.
He catches the heart on his sleeve on her dress.
They slip off their shoes for their ruse of a cruise.
The roadside they litter with such bitterness.

The wrong turns they take and the stops that they make
In the lots where the ghosts of their best shots lay dead.
She puts on her blacks as they stay for the wake;
They sigh while his blues clash with lips ruby red.

And this is the war
If not the heart’s wish.
It’s love at the core
That hates in the flesh.

In decency lost and complacency found,
The particulars are in need of redress;
They pick at the bones as they drive the world ’round,
And make their love with razor sharp tenderness.

And this is the war
If not the heart’s wish.
It’s love at the core
That hates in the flesh.

In the dark that falls in the hours made small,
When push comes to pull and the knife to it’s rest,
They’re twining their grip as they cling to their fall,
And lay themselves down by the sweat of their breast.

And this is the war.
Their war.
This is the war.
Their war.