I can melt in the warmth... Oh the joy!! Take me on the rockette to the sun..!!

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Remembering Macedonia. Chapter Four. Trailing Fingers and Rings of Smoke.

Those were heady days. The painfully white sun beat your head to a throbbing, pulsating mass and everything burnt with a brightness that hurt your eyes. The nights, sunk in the acrid stench of cashew liquor and the salivating smoke of hash, were as warm and swampy and nauseous as a hairy armpit.
I was never good with names . And those nights when I wasn't listening to Alex's myth of the constellations or shoving someone's face up a drainpipe, I would disappear and coalesce into some nameless dark alley whose existence in the world was heralded only by its putrid smell of sweat, dirt, smoke and piss. There, nameless women passed through my hands, their faces receding into the darkness of night and memory. Fuck that. Rather, I think i never cared to notice their faces or whisper out their names in the dark. All that mattered was the raucous odour of sweat and bad breath, the stale taste of smoke-stained lips, the greasy locks of hair clutched in my arm, and the rhythmic unison with which our bodies melted, moulded and moved.
As plastic as clay. As mechanical as a fucking locomotive. They often whispered that my name had more to do with my virility than my obstinacy.

But Alex was different. He had Mac. Macedonia, who filled his days with whispers and caprice. Macedonia, who filled his nights with the rhapsody of longing.
She was summer
And winter and the scent of
The thousand seasons in between
She was poetry
And the muse
Her ringing laughter
Of pleasant nights on a breezy beach
Her black hair
A tumultuous ocean at night
Where his fingers trailed
As they brushed her nape
The spray of ocean
And the scent of salt
And wheat and fresh-cut grass
Her breath on his neck
As she whispered and wept
Her voice soaking his face
In summer rain
Alex woke up when her half-moon eyes lit up like the rising sun. He slept among the enchanted lime-scented forest of her hair, that vineyard of dreams and memories and eternal childhood.

Mac, whose dreams gave birth to the days of the Buddha. Mac, whose bated breath was the distant rumble of cosmic rebirth. Mac, whose deep ocean eyes into which the icy glaciers would melt and spill over some day. Mac, whose fingertips felt the texture of time and yearning, loneliness and remembrance.

Yet, when Mac said she loved him, Alex McIntyre was benignly silent; his thin lips retreating into the masked serenity of his face and his eyes tracing the ringlets of smoke from a stubbed-out cigarette.

8 comments:

  1. MAC. more of her.
    and yes noticed the throbbing pulsating etc words here n there :P

    ReplyDelete
  2. Loved Mac and want to hear more of her...
    Please!!!

    ReplyDelete
  3. Week 41 The Perfect Poet Award for you.

    http://promisingpoetscafe.wordpress.com/awards/the-perfect-poet-award-4-poets-rally-week-41/


    thanks..

    join poets rally today, have fun...

    ReplyDelete
  4. thanks a ton... an honour truly...

    ReplyDelete
  5. This is perfect. Please don't say more about Mac and kill her enigma. :)

    ReplyDelete
  6. There is always something bou the smoke emitted from a cigarette. and it always fetches the near-perfect ends.

    ReplyDelete