The Gypsy State ........................................................................................ by Perzaia

The Gypsy

by Perzaia

Where do the Gypsy Winds blow? Where do they go when after they brush against the blades, the bricks, jiggles the leaves, tumbles the wrapper, dries the sheets, touches the skin; pushing indiscriminately, its weight locomotive or a feather dancing on a breath? Wind is always in such a hurry, always eager to get to the other side of the globe when traversing in a gypsy state of mind. A rootless, groundless fling across the cosmos, eons of gypsy winds anxious to lap up every experience no matter the triviality of source, keen, as if it was the wind’s first time.

Gypsy winds rarely stand for the stillness of a quiet moment, or long enough to relish the suspension of their rootless existence; preferring the trembling touch of molesting every outpost and in turn, bringing back souvenirs of its journeys. Gypsy is the wind who travels light, wears only clothes of mists that the temperature hands over in a holdup awaiting the ransom of sun or cold as hostage. Wind frocks in the latest of the many layered clouds fashions, ridiculous clouds, artist clouds, erotic clouds, functional clouds, fun clouds, all tinted in colors of sun and rain, lavenders and salmon. Gypsy winds are vain enough to ornament themselves in the mode of the day.

The Gypsy King is a wandering wind, king wind from the north steering his tumbril drawn by snow dragons. They have a lumbering careen about them, drunk on the cold, dragging behind their icy currents like a condemned convict on his way to the gallows. North Wind’s heavy clawed-fists rake the rugged mountains and isolation frigid, intent on crushing the old ways out of the frivolous warmth of summer’s southern roll. Cold curling wind that ruffs the thick coats of muskox and artic wolves, pushing the lethargic grizzly bear into the shelter of comfy before feeling the burn of frozen. It is a wind that carries its heart in heavy scents, the musk of wooden muskeg, tundra weeds, frail ice flowers and metallic orcas packed inside enormous steamer trunks and hatboxes strapped carelessly to the back and jettisoning its load.

The gypsy king’s voyages dwell for the most, in the land of serious story time. Inuit tales reticulated in the sublime of illuminations pirouetting in a sea of stars. In the recoil of chill he is dreaming of snakes and scorpions and

State of Winds

the cactus road signs that lead to storms with an end. This, the most ancient of shaman winds, slapping its frigid wisdom against bare childish skin, reaching, reaching for profound until the king of winds tires into the pale of old age. Wind stands still for a moment to catch his breath—too long, too long, time enough to be cheated by a swaggering knave south-wind; wound-up, organized for a season of sultry frivolity.

Knave gypsy wind topples the king; naked, buff, rippling his flaunt of heated muscle. His debauched southern visage smolders trickster with curly dark hair, glowering eyes and lips made for kissing, deceitful dirt trapped under his fingernails. He is organic, his days sought in pleasure and the leisurely laze of poetry. He is full of words like coral sand and tropical velvet, wetted coconut palms licked by the tang of salt sea air. The knavery of this gypsy wind, his pilfered baggage disguised in licentious pongs of suntan oil and redhot chilies drunk on tequila chocolates. He is the gypsy wind who orders chips and salsa with a side of guacamole, points to the clouds and says with an exaggerated accented sneer, ‘put it on their bill.’ The south wind is a bohemian tango of gypsy gales that woos with the force of a cyclonic lambada bellybash. His stiffened tempest of wanton seduction sweeps across immense expanses, to loiter in dark alleys and murky corners along the African coast, stalking for a swirling collision of pressures from the far easterly. Sniffing out the promiscuous waverly creature from the far eastern, he choses the vastness of an ocean caravan for their clandestine trysts. Intimately, the south wind nuzzles the winsome gypsy east —as dangerous a forbidden beauty as the lush succulent of Venus enfolded in a rosy silken saris. A high-maintenance manicure, she is a full-on wanton, moist lyrical bluster of curvy poisons and heady perfumes, her glorious crown of hair a web of entangled lore. She lingers, encircled in her gypsy trickster’s arms spiraling, he sups on her curry, her saffron and her coy sweetness tinted in licorice and honey snaking around her sultry limbs, coating her like a second skin.

Within a peacock’s evening screams, the gigolo gypsy steals from the morals of goddesses, seeds to impregnation then reveals he is the father of demon west winds. She