Fav'd @ DA

what is a song if not sung
what is a bell if not rung

and so our hearts we use so well
pull us ever down to hell
not hell of old, but hell on earth
where the dead and dying are sent to live

yet all is not lost ..

behold the hair so wild and free
rippling high and long in front of me

the limbs so slender, bronzed and bruised
but what are these if not signs of things well used

the eyes grown pale with wisdom kept
from knowledge garnered while other slept

behold my man this woman fair
and not just behold, but understand
for who cannot see beyond the hair
will be forever strange to her warm hand

and so i say ..

a song is for me to sing
and a bell is for her to ring (:

I can take your trouble

Standing on the bed gives a new perspective. Dairy-skinned you bend into the wall with a small, soft sigh. The day has been long-waiting on us, hours played out in our mind, single dreams overlapping. The night is crisp outside, sneaking in through the curtains unexpectedly, and coming to sharp contrast on my hands against your warmth.

Looking down I can follow the flow of your legs, so like milk stone pillars. And I push you forward, making you crest against the cold stone. A struggle ensues, a slow battle between us as I trap you here against me. How long we fight; fight the cold, fight the warmth, fight each other. Ecstasy blooming in the blood rushing heat of battle.

But time rolls on and the rush subsides once more into a deep mere, innocence in its placid surface. I take you away from the cold, and when you settle yourself upon me, I trace the fingers of my right hand down your chest, counting bone. Would that I could keep the total in my head, I count again and again while rhythmic rings expand from you, as you dip and rise on my lap.

Numbers forgotten I hold onto you for dear life as, together, we slowly sink our ship into this sea.

I'm 60 feet tall. .

sout en asyn

Vrinde, laat my toe om aan jul iets voor te stel:

Stellenbosch, die plattelandse dorpie. Waar geen bekende gesigte dwaal nie en nie 'n siel op spoed is erens heen nie.

Die boemelaar se gesig dop af van die skielike dae sonder son beskreming, en hy glo ook nie ek sal terug kom nie. Oupa agter die toonbank by die vis en tjips winkel beweeg teen 'n monotoniese spoed wat jou bewus maak van die dag se vereiste; jy moet dwaal deur hierdie dag. Voel hoe onnodig vinnig beweeg jy soos jy oor die rooi plein wandel.

As jy jou kop kantel om te luister, hoor jy hoe skryf die blare ritsel ritsel uit in die bries. Verveeld word 'n besige lewe op hierdie sypaadjie. Hier groei wortels terug in hul blare in.

Ek vertroetel hierdie gevoel; binne kort gaan jy ek word, en ek gaan ek wonder word, en dan is die wonder waar jou ribbene is..