Exercises in style (23): Alliterative

You stood still at the windowsill of the ancient attic’s aperture, gazing gloomily at the glutted moon. Your mistress’s morose and mewling moans mounted from below, making things melt inside your eyes. The wallpaper was wondrously elaborate – giant jungle canopies covered every last length. You wanted to forget her womanly warmth, her wanton womb…but you could not. Woe was you.

Still you stood, staring silently at the mad moon marching higher in the sky. The moon waxed gibbous; its gay but guileful grin reminded you of the great gusto with which she guillotined your heart. Continually did her wails wind upwards. But then began a burgeoning, a blossoming of blooms from the background into the biome of the room. As the rainforest reality ran resplendently amok, you repressed an urge to react, until a bright blue and orange bird-of-paradise plopped in perilous proximity to your nostrils. Nosing it, you fell into nostalgia’s knotted noose (recalling her soap-scent after sex and sleep).

Time trespassed, stealing the hours. No longer were her lamentations loud or limpid. You could not hear them even lowly. You gazed at the glassy sky, at the nonexistence of the new moon. Your melancholy had meandered many miles away. The jumping, jangling jungle was all around you.

~ by kingzoko on February 21, 2016.

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