Concerning A Conversation In A Wine Cellar With A Most Bloody Poet

“Mr. Hand, I presume?  Oh, do not seek to prevaricate, who else but my patron–a thousand pardons, potential patron, for deciding the issue is to be the substance of our encounter–would I chance upon in this most desolate hour, long past the wonted span of even the most enthusiastic impresario of the vine?”

“Ah, it is not your identity, but rather the appellation by which I hail you that you would seek to dispute? Such is my habit, for I am in all things related to my art the staunchest formalist. Assignations such as ours are without fail occasioned by false names given by all concerned, just as masquerades give rise to false faces and days of obligation to false piety.  I have, good sir, bestowed up you an anonym.”

“Should we enter into an agreement regarding my art, it shall be known solely as ‘The Case Of Mr. Hand’.  I shall not belittle your cunning by speaking of the ways in which such nomenclature is to your advantage should malign happenstance degrade this tragedy into a farce, and render my high verse doggerel.”

“For you see, Mr. Hand, I am no ordinary tradesman of the gibbet and garrote.  I style myself an artist–nay it is the gods who have styled me thus, I do no more than bow to the nature they have sown within me!  It is my conceit that the arts of death are the highest form of poetry, for it is those arts wherein my genius lies.”

“I have honed to the point of madness my intellect, yet in one direction only.  I can say without fear of contradiction that no living man is as well versed in the myriad ways in which a person may be brought to destruction as I.  I stand before you a plague, a pestilence of infinite parts.  Modesty, in league with prudence, forbids me to enumerate those who have met their end at the crescendo of one of my works.  Suffice to say that my audience would strain the capacity of the theater above us.”

“And now, with no further prologue, let us lift the curtain on the first act of our melodrama. This act, Mr. Hand, is your monologue.  A simple thug or ordinary villain, perhaps, would ask for no more than payment and a name, but I am an artist.  To inspire my genius I require your passion.”

“Tell me–and tell me in exhaustive detail, neglect not the slightest brushstroke from your canvas of calamity–tell me why the one whom has inspired you to seek me out must die.”

About MishaBurnett

I am the author of "Catskinner's Book", a science fiction novel available on Amazon Kindle.
This entry was posted in On Writing, Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Concerning A Conversation In A Wine Cellar With A Most Bloody Poet

  1. tracycembor says:

    Ooo, so good! I wish I could be a fly on the wall for the rest of that conversation. 😉

    • tracycembor says:

      I also meant to say that your word selection was perfect! You neglected not the slightest nuance.

      • MishaBurnett says:

        Thank you. As I was walking home from work yesterday I was listening to music on my Kindle, and, as usual, it was set on random. One of the audio files I have on it is William Control reading Poe’s “Eleonora” (and he does an outstanding job). When that was finished, my Kindle chose to play Moby’s cover of the James Bond theme. This little fragment grew out of the juxtaposition of those audio files.

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