The day was lethargic with a monotonous scrawl. The sky remained a lesbian with limpid poems. I took a gaze at my under wares. To my surprise they were all torn at the crotch. Is it too much pressure bombarded by my dick? Talked to my adulterous sweet lover on Whatsapp. She told me: ‘dear I am carrying and I am due in Feb’. Please wait until May for our next rendezvous. I have another lover whose husband is a bum. She expects to be paid for a fuck. Every day I am fucking waiting for a windfall to bounty my purse. Yes, I have given up on Christ. My new Gods are Lucifer, Ahriman and Mammon. I have started worshiping them. Christ does not have a heart. He is cold hearted, stubborn and arrogant. Money is the God you need on this earth. The Supreme Court of India has decriminalized adultery and gay marriages. The laws of the country are shifting from the colonial era to democratic norms. A poem on wings is resting on the wall. Poetry is the love of words in figures of copulation. I am still wondering what a postmodern novel is. I have no answers but only questions to ask. Irony is defied. Parody is inflated. The burlesque and the pastiche are comic jargons of expression. Character is the liberation of emotion. Lampooning is the device to exhilarate metaphors from convention. Kafka satirized the novel into an ironic cauldron of self reflective psychologism. Joyce walked in metaphors of effusive streams of consciousness. Don Quixote anarchized romanticism into madness. Virginia Wolf liberated the cunt into a consciousness of interior monologue. Sartre tore the novel into eulogies ansgtual tropes. Borges liberated the novel from the ornament of realism and conjured the novel to a vista of magic realism. In a postmodern novel art begins to trope and character begins to incarnate as a desecration of the mind. The era of genres is dead. Tropes have to be sculpted as art.