State Of The Art Poem by Nikhil Parekh

State of the Art cars; to philander in; whistle past the ingratiatingly voluptuous countryside like a trice of a bullet,

State of the Art fabric; to compassionately entrench the shivering flesh of my body; gallivant in the most garishly pompous fashion; through contemporary city streets,

State of the Art aircrafts; to transport me to the most fathomlessly unbelievable parts of the globe; as I royally caressed through mystical puffs of cotton clouds,

State of the Art lawns; for me to transgress through at the crack of nostalgic dawn; profusely absorb the exotic river of golden dew drops with the silken periphery of my feet,

State of the Art watches; to display the accurate unveiling of time; illuminate the dolorous atmosphere with their ethnically silver shine,

State of the Art computer; to punch in keywords at thunderbolt velocities; reach even the most obsolete corner of this planet with the innocuous ease of a new born child,

State of the Art footwear; which was thoroughly resilient against the most tumultuous of storm; trespassed like an untamed panther over a blanket of satanically
acrimonious thorns,

State of the Art swimming pool; in which I plunged for a stupendously rejuvenating swim; fantasizing unrelentingly under the festoon of amicably twinkling stars,

State of the Art pen; with its grandiloquently golden nib embossing my magnanimous signature over every currency check I endorsed,

State of the Art food; with the most exotic cuisine on this earth served majestically on my platter; a labyrinth of embellished spoons fervently awaiting an encounter with my slavering mouth,

State of the Art sun glasses; to sequester me from the acrid Sun; enticing gasps of incredulously augmenting admiration; from my battalion of followers on the streets,

State of the Art shampoo; to impart a fabulous redolence to my scalp; engendering an unsurpassable cloud of bubbles to handsomely diffuse in placid carpets of air,

State of the Art garlands impregnated with a gorgeous conglomerate of shimmering pearls; to make me feel infinite times higher than the crowned king,

State of the Art office; equipped with the most swanky contraptions; which shrunk the entire world; into an infinitesimally minuscule wired village,

State of the Art farms; through which I flirted when my mind commanded; frolicking in gay abandon with clusters of immaculately furry sheep,

State of the Art libraries overwhelmed with the most enigmatically captivating books; which I supremely relished to read; under the seductively plush air of the air-conditioner,

State of the Art cameras; for me to capture the most astoundingly mesmerizing sights in this Universe; click infinite times in a single instant; to relax the pertinently welling pressure of my palms,

State of the Art breath to inhale; filtered by the most stringently conventional air purifiers; ensuring that I lived my life to the most unprecedented of its capacity,

But most importantly; uninhibitedly natural rudiments of love; which made me actually enjoy all that was State of the Art; kept me for unfathomable births; always alive.