poker of the patriarch

Poker of the patriarch

In an ancient land of Sindhusthan, he was the lord. He liked singing songs that created titillation in his poker and he admired his waking up father turning inside his langot. At the acme of his popularity he decided to get himself immortalized. He chose iron as the material for making his statue but his ministers proved his wisdom a bit less thought. Iron may catch rust. And then iron could never look as ancient as a great king of his stature should appear like without appearing decadent from any angle. Court astrologers made a worldwide survey of the various arts of sculpture making in their star-studded chart and finally decided to have one, which combined the best of everywhere. Whatever was thought, planned, and decided by the court officials meant nothing unless the lord approved it. And lord’s decisions were made at the dead of the night when he lied sucking toes of some beauty and she milked him into drain. Standing poker meant all approved for the next day. And if the lord refused to budge on any decision everyone knew that last night his dog refused to budge. Some new wine, new singers, new paintings and some new beauties were sent to his regal lodge with a great hope of making the gradually defuncting poker work a few more days.

The lord stood at the height of some fifteen meters and his head was held high. flowing hair like a healthy horse’s mane was just heart snaring. His chest was bared with utmost care as not to expose the impatiently peeping ribs but show the immensity of his heart which could hold all the love and care of this world. The rest of the description may look tediously boring so let’s cut it short. He was just too much in love with his beloved poker and at no cost he was to separate from it. He wanted to have that as an integral part of his statue, standing there to command equal love, adoration and awe. While his athlete body was perfectly there to be copied, his poker was putting some strain on the artist’s imagination. No one could have pointed a single snag in the whole body he had made so far. But this poker thing! He sucked all the fingers in his both hands but still without any clue. He dared not ask anyone what he needed to proceed with the same perfection. And as most of the self proclaimed artists have the enigmatic craziness for originality, he was also too reluctant to proceed with his work unless having a detailed view of the lords poker. After several rounds of meeting in the dead of the night, leaving their wives at the mercy of some unseen but expected bed-rockers, the ministers decided to tell this problem to the lord. They just decided to hold it till the opportune day. They just waited for some favourable night. Unfortunately, neither was budging.

Artists can reach beyond the reaches of the sunlight. Poor chap cursed whoever was the maxim maker every time some one repeated It before him. only imaginative peple can understand the imaginary boundaries of imagination. He always murmured with exhaling like some watered oven. Where to get the required details for making the poker. He approached all the discarded pieces of beauties from the lords lodge. But every time he got some different idea about by now the most haunting and dreaded thing. Some went on to say that he did not even have any. Some just scratched their head as if trying to remember how many times they went to pee without feeling any urgency and then declared in an unburdening tone that he had something looking like some inverted spoon. Some just yawned and said that it was like the bottom head of a bamboo stick. One told that his was like a dancing fish which is actually suffering in the absence of water and dies in a few moments. And then just stale and stuffy outside the cavern.

Even lords get worried. Mortality makes them vulnerable to commonality. Moreover, the most effective immunity against such a common fate was still not in effect. All tried in every possible way to establish some authentic ground on which the statue can get the finality of perfection, but all for almost no result. The image of the object that the artist had to copy was still not clear . and the lord was not getting his poker correct for the last many months. No new supply was proving effective enough to affect his these days defunct poker. Finally, they gave over to technology when nature failed to help.

The artist was very busy drawing all the possible sorts of positions that could fit the lords fantasy. He took several models fitting various postures as discussed in multiple techno-philosophical, bio- technological and other scholarly texts coming from different ethno-racial sources. Everyone felt impressed by his assiduous effort and irritated by his still dissatisfied artistic satisfaction. the lord was cursing his courtiers, the artists and time. The courtiers were cursing the artist and time. The artist was cursing the bloody illusive poker that was not revealing its true image. Pokerless lord kept waiting in the open and the white cloth wrapped around his waist could not hide the absence of that cloth-elevating object. The moon changed its position every night.

One night the artist woke with some bestial noise coming from the regal lodge. he smiled . it was pleasant to his ears. he just threw some clothes over himself and ran towards the sound. The long chain of heaving and moaning could end with an orgasmic cry of despair and he did not want to loose that moment. Magnitude of the lordship at its best before it starts shrinking up again.. he pushed the door in a rush and it opened with a pull. He collided with a beauty just in her natural garb and a shriek pierced into his ears and through it into him. he felt his package humiliating mauled. The beauty leapt away without giving another glimpse.

The lord was standing near his bed with his poker still and erect, making an angle of around sixty degrees at his waist. Muscles of his butt were tense, he was biting his lips and his eyes were closed. Blood was trickling down, in inches, from the top of his poker. The artist measured the length and the angle and ran out that very moment to accomplish the long-waiting job.

People still tell the story of a mad artist who roams naked at night. Who reincarnated the great lord in his superbly built statue. The lord with his blood oozing poker is still a secret cult god of all the womanizers who perform their antics n the dead of night. As story goes, the lord died after receiving a mortal injury. He was hunting in the forest I a full moon night when a tigress attacked him from behind. Even though taken by surprise, the lord thrust his spear into his adversary’s chest. Unfortunately, he held the spear on the wrong side as the bottom side was turned at the tigress and the head was at him. The jumping tigress hit against the butt and the sharp spear tore his chest apart. A defiant roar came from his mouth and frightened the whole forest and the tigress also ran away.

His statue stands with his poker pointing to the heaven. It is in divine communion with the divine powers and whenever Sindhusthan is felt to be in any kind of problem the priests perform an appeasing and pleasing ritual which restores the earlier peace and calm. While two musicians are playing trumpet and vina respectively, priests wash the poker of the lord with sacred water and then offer fresh hymenal blood mixed with the writhing pain of the sacrificed virgin. It is believed that the lord kept penetrating hymens even until he lost his appetite for food, sense of natural calls, desire of being in this world and all the rest. It was the perfection of the performance of the royal duties and the bloodstain on his poker symbolizes the perpetual proliferation of nature’s fertility. Foreign attack or famine or any other calamity can be averted by pleasing the lord. Every true patriarch of this Sindhusthan wears a garland of miniature pokers, made after the model of the poker of the lord, and it keeps his poker working and dominating his women.