Mostly she practices for the park pigeons, who flock to her side and sit as brooding hens. Beneath her feet, concrete splattered with avian poop, Ciggie butts and iridescent phlegm. But still she practices, Shoulders ablaze, her right arm a system of uncoiling springs Her mind also unfurling, idle and fertile for the devil himself.
Her violin vibrates long after she has stopped playing. Let the rumours begin, of bartered souls and human gut strung taught as string. What else could make the peasants dance and bring peace among the pigeons? Paganini’s mother sold his soul for a virtuoso son, And her own mother traded her for a leafy suburb and a Mrs before her name: In the capitalist wheel we are all bought and sold!
The trick is style. Personal Branding 2.0! Suited men and winged apparitions are all the rage, How can hoofs and horns compete with such multi-level marketing? Being a woman and therefore degenerate, being a novice fiddler, She makes all the deals with all the devils.
Word upon Word 