Exercises in style (15): à la Georges Perec – sans ‘e’

A man stands staring through an attic window at a full moon which sits on said window’s bottom boundary. A woman’s wails climb to him and his orbs contract, liquid pushing out, spilling down. On his room walls, tropical motifs vault abundantly.

Hours pass. That man is still at his window, gazing at a moon rising, a waxing gibbous moon. His lady’s moans goo up through floorboards continuously. But wall paintings start falling into his room, growing plump with actual air. Plants, blooms, birds, bugs…a chimp with arms as long as pasta for hungry gods. A giant blossom of coral color dips in front of our man’s nostrils, which absorb its odor in voracious gulps. Following, his mind twists in nostalgia’s dirty grasp (for such lady’s hair aromas did immortally poison his thought).

Many many hours unspool. That man stands staring at a moon which should kiss its window’s top, but said moon has swung black, camouflaging into a stygian sky. No woman’s wails assail him now. It is raining in his room; an Amazonian zoo surrounds him. It whisks him away.

~ by kingzoko on February 6, 2015.

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