(for Clive 1959-68) We thought we were all James Dean then, Teenage rebels in tight blue jeans. Rehearsing roles of nonchalance, We slung life low across our hips, Strutted to conclusions.
Evelyn John Holtzhausen
25 posts
(In memory of Deborah Aubrey-Smith 1950-70) Have I become you: - walking naked from the sea, to roll in beach sand: the feel of it, gritty, sandpaper skin at sunrise, sodden in the fresh, orange, sweaty, humid tinge of a new day. Drenched by the touch of it.
You play upon my thoughts with the incessant beat of a tribal drum pounded by a warrior to the rhythm of rain: I am saturated by your smile.
Within the rhythmic throb and thrust of your warm and perfect heart, the blood I have claimed as mine, smiles as it conspires to pump my love through your veins: And tingle beneath your skin. From: In the Palm of my Soul (SNAILPRESS 1995)
Wale Street, 12.01 am, the old flag hangs above the toyi-toyi crowd, pegged four-square by bullet-vest cops who quiver like antennae, tense for the dull, thud, thwomp of detonation.
