the muse and the mistress

1. Always the prototype custody freak.
‘Patriarch for the purists’ says he,between puffs of smoke
then again, the countryside dawn isn’t exactly what we suppose it to be.
its just an inherited mansion,
its just an inherited space,
No metaphorical wilderness,
No omnipresent sepia shadows

and I am not complaining.

now, the way I’d write a prologue , our girl won’t be all flannel draped, safe fashionista sipping pink panthers, and why again does she have to have the bearings of a botticeli to snatch your attention.
but it so happened that I didn’t and when its him, you can always tell.

there’s always an aquiline nose to start with, one of our man’s lost causes as we’d come to know later in the course of story. There’s this insanely morose shroud of nonsensical prose geared cleverly to give one a taste of their own desires. The Freudian ego and the Id.
I’m tempted to call that reverse psychology a clever maneuver.
I’m tempted to claim him.
Claim him for myself
but not unless he has no claims over me,
I’m tempted for my own selfish will
tempted , in fact A LOT lately.

2. For starters, let me just –ever so strictly-warn you against the unsaid rule,
you do not breathe a word of this to ANYONE,
what I am about to entrust you with lies in the deep recesses of my clandestine head,
far from the asinine proclamations the world has made about him,
and the smoke-engulfed taciturn versions our man here is more than just ink and paper ramblings of weltschmerz , world weariness.

To get down to the detail, as he most lovingly prefers it to be,
an old dilapidated mansion , the rich Persian rug, and some colonial furniture
air thick with incense, and tobacco smoke, it might for sure take a while for you to navigate your way around the room.
and there he is, by the windowsill,
a sculputresque reticent figure with age dripping through his pores,
down to the placid grimalkin purring on his lap,

3. Contrary to his works, only a few have heard him talk,
through his words ,
the impeccable throaty renditions of some unfortunate trysts with faith, Earth, heaven or hell
scars borne out of life and death forsooth,
and then
for once Dante aligheri is just a crazy speculator.
those religious lords just swanky billboard adverts.

4. Our man seldom has favorites,
his eyes betray any presence of emotion,
but it is through these glassy conduits beneath the thick white brows,
that I saw the slightest footsteps to his heart,
That when one holds on to an enchantment,
he’s led on to intrigue
holding on to intrigue,
one finds obsession,
and when one is obsessed for quite a while…
voila!


5. so it is me, the favorite one,
me, of the aquiline nose, and slender spidery fingers
clutching the precarious Mediterranean silk on me,
all his yen packed into glittery packages,
into his blue-blooded mistress
a 16th century princess.

slurping the pink panthers nevertheless


6. Our man and his unusual ways,
and I’m the last person to be complaining,

am I not just ink and paper
another impeccably penned character,

at best-a muse, at worst- a puppet


7. ‘someday I shall soar up,
and then collapse on my own’

‘you sir, are in a mortal risk of being immortal’

‘that does not mean the world shall know you as mine’

‘someday, I shall soar up
and collapse to a zillion shards with your reflections ’

‘I can not for my life, let the world read you, be you or desire you’

‘But in any sense, wouldn’t they be reading YOU instead?’