- The sun has set on the night.
- The winter night, ardent pursuer of the semidiurnal, is yet again inveigled into evanescence by time feigning stasis.
- The dawn has dawned.
- A bellicose, recrudescent sun peruses contumacious, flocculent clouds, seeking ingress.
- The dew, vitreous vesper of the night, wangled from the clouds, ensconced in the grass; and upon it a misty apparition of the quasi morning. It blinks.
- She blinks, she winks, she hood winks.
The revivified sun descries an exiguous schism amidst the hitherto incoherent clouds. The obtruding sorority surmounted, consanguine solar rays, parergons in concinnity, peregrinate towards the land peregrine only to its autochthons. Out in the courtyard, blessed by truant pedagogues to peripatetic delinquency, a quartet of humdingers savors the catechism their spirit siphons from the nature’s procreaees; shuddering at the vagrant antics of the mordacious wind. She, the svelte sylph, is appareled in raiment of morganatic proportion. It, the willow wind, is jocose today. A gust of fresh air, emanating from the burgeoning chimera in our minds, eschews the verdant grass, elicits a shiver from a neighbor, brandishes withered leaves against the fleeting dust, and with chevalier strides swoops upon the girl. Look at that, look at that! A bystander bellows, the wind blows, the skirt billows. Atrophied eyes cartograph the evolution of the escalating arrayment into a spectacle of ascending chic. Bravo! The incendiary (piacular perhaps) faculty of the ebullient wind that transcreates into her pulchritudinous cheeks a flaming rubicund flush. ‘Aw’ she apostrophizes, ‘the gump!
The gump? Nay – the gumption of the cognoscenti. The skirt is scattered, and the day is araised. Oddity! I have fallen in love. The heart, perfidious instrument, conjures and abjures, abducts and reneges, musters and disimmures… the precocious sensation. Far away from me, cloistered by serendipitous prolepsis, cajoled by sententious inefficacy, and yet sequestered by claustrophobic vicinity, the hoyden and the hobbledehoy amble moodily into the purview – and when she tramples his shadow, trespasses into his being, traverses his soul, the stultified hedonism, soporific within him, thrives again; and when their askance glances converge, from her squint-eyed masquerade there shimmers affection, or affectation; from the inchoate swivel of his eyes there gleams trepidation. Speak, I enjoin, let the words roll. The recurrent rhyming, the echoing encores, the awry alliterations! But I butt into rebuttals, I can’t cant, I ascribe, proscribe, I weigh, inveigh… Far away from me the hoyden and the hobbledehoy trot - - and when she unfurls her arms as riposte to a fellow’s hullo-ed humdudgeon, he meanders towards his rescinded persona, stammers thingummy poetry; and when the redolent Samina ruffles his olfactory glands, the atavistic instincts fulminate, the impending perdition prevaricates… Ah! I am maladroit and a goop. Far away from me she shall retreat. I walk away. Chaotic!
Quixotic! The women eh, they make men out of us.
- The hour is a transvestite.
- The air bristles with divested moorings, and embellished paraphernalia.
- Dishabilled: heart in monologue.
- Accoutred: heart in soliloquy.
The aureole is forsaken. Yet the reveur reveres the revue. A splendid chiaroscuro of resplendence augurs the peroration of the interregnum afore the ordained resurrection. Hey, I whistle, hey. He sees pretty, makes prettier. He is a magician. He is an alchemist. He transmogrifies verity. He transmutes the mundane. He transfuses the gospel. He translates the monochromatic. He transgresses the ethereal. He transcends the phantasmal. The eclectic trainee. The cherubic Kavita embroiled in solipsistic missives, strolls along an isolated street, stalked by fobs who vituperate her, accost her, accord her emetic bonhomie. He molests them. The imbroglio has quotidian reincarnations. The ravishing Saryu, lovely in the transpicacious morning, has had her facility at coitus honed by him. He precludes the mottled Swati’s harangue and is dumbfounded by the demure Chaya, ‘Sweetheart! She knows not I love her. Pitiable sweetheart. ‘ The reveur reveres the revue … Far away from me the gamine and gamin perambulate. I walk, I run.
- I am too pudent for chivalry.
- The sun descants.
- Get thee to a nunnery.
- The sun descants.
- How about it.
No comments:
Post a Comment