Devils Dance Together on the Punchline – James D. Casey IV

September 11, 2019

Cut out your tongue, slice off your nose, and tear out your eyes so you can hear better. Sharpen your remaining senses by losing a few to catch life’s ironic sarcasm in unfeeling hands, next to go. The only way to truly live. Can you forgive those in heartache from the loss of God? Will you turn the other cheek? Will you play the victim? It matters not for whom the bell tolls, enthralled by the thrill of the kill. Different flowers at the feet of the same statues you walk by each day. Echoes ringing in your ears dodging questions. Outrage on the mourning is not enough because you’re in it with a piece of fiction. Half-truths and the power of deception celebrating a new issue. Looking for a path when you’ve found the forest, following gossip. Does it feel like the first time? The tearing of a young girl’s flower, the premature ejaculation of an acne-faced boy. Hearts and initials carved into trees are not confessions of love. They’re glimpses into the reality of how many people carry blades on dates! How many of those hearts came before murders? Ever thought of that? Probably quite a few. Venus dreaming, Jupiter rising, the devils all dance together. What a perfect evening to end a perfect day. Spaces for creative experimentation and exchange, walking in a dead man’s shoes, or a woman’s for that matter. Sometimes they don’t fit so well. Size too large or a size too small. Down a two way street with a one-track mind . . . so many things you never knew. Stalkers don’t just stalk anyone, you have to earn that shit. Trouble every day when your head is screwed on wrong. The keeper of the swan will be your ruin, and if you’re not a real fighter you need to get out of the way for someone who is. A battle cry for love in all its glorious forms – even the ugly ones – especially the ugly ones. The beauties are lovely fat beasties asking for slaughter. Eyes freshly opened, wide shut, chilled out pups thriving in the noisy thrum of daily life. Nothing spooks them or their newborn legs. Not even your caterwauling. We are just skanky little virgins in our own minds after all. The best endings are the ones that feel like they’ve stabbed you deep in the gut. That’s life, that’s what it does, it’s the ultimate joke, and death is the punchline.