The Devil's Cello

Someone’s wearing horns. “I keep turning ideas ‘round and ‘round,” these are your words not mine. Let’s dance, El Toro. Jagged footwork, chaotic turn of events, graceful flip-flopping of antics; the trick is to hold your stance so he can’t plow through you. Close your eyes so you can’t see his smile. It’s the only line of defense. Twirling images of skin like red satin falling in a downward pirouette. Let’s scheme, El Toro. This is dangerous ground we’re stomping on. Someone’s wearing strings. “But, you’re taken,” these are my words not yours. Let’s dance, Geppetto. Guilt ridden irony, daydreaming about scenarios, and the act of being controlled- just keep following the pull and listening to your master. Entertain the boundaries and adhere to the rules. It’s the only way of survival. Tangled visions of life, like twine knotted in the midst of your grand production. Let’s scheme, Geppetto. This is a shaky stage we’re performing on. Sweet melodious conscience, the Devil’s cello is humming. Please don’t ask me twice. Please don’t ask me thrice.