The sexual revolution, like a juggernaut,
Moves on, with no hope what so ever
Of stopping it or slowing it down.
So I step up, to sell marriage,
A haven, sacrament and institution,
And a sweet home to many.
When I say that I’m a non-conformist
I mean to say that I change in retrograde
In the complete opposite direction of change,
Everyone else embraces – the anterograde kind.
I look out of my two window panes,
I see the fall of Victorian dresses billow
Bigger than dinosaur bellies and gentlemen
Lift their hats every time a woman
Passes by. I see a little pact between man and woman, that is,
Undergoing both devolution and irrelevancy,
Like the corset, or courtesy,
Stubbornly resisting the inevitable,
Almost like the stones of Stonehenge,
Her timelessness endowing man,
With an offering of legitimacy,
Of an otherwise commonplace ritual
Of bed hopping.
And by design, falling in love,
Is simply developing staying power
To the custom of mounting beds,
When man develops that recurring feeling
– Sometimes a sheer constant – that the freedom
To walk away, is only negligible,
To the compulsive need to stay,
And occupy a room, both,
On the inside and out.
And in Austen country, there are
Those who cheer on this haven. The “Liz”s
And “Darcy”s, who have become sheer
Misnomers in modernity. Being a romantic,
Is far from policing your bodies,
Or being sentinels on guard posts.
It is the sheer pleasure in knowing the unknown
Is as mythical as the dream prophesizes.
How beautiful to have another
At the caressing distance of a breath,
Gold orbiting like rings of Saturn,
In that near-perfect moment,
Butterflies start to settle on your skin,
While beneath, a tsunami wave is breaking loose,
About to engulf all in her corridor.
And all you can do is to resist, the resistance,
Just wanting to be washed away
As far as you can. How endearing,
Not knowing, what you’re feeling.
And still letting that feeling control you,
Till you exclaim; as your resistance,
And now, you are no longer a Jane Austen novel.
Just a page of Mills and Boon