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PennySands

Thursday, 3 November 2011. I cross this river to remember. Nothing waits on the other side. It is the crossing that is memory. Cold water currents wrap my naked flesh with words. Touch, my only truth, my singular companion. The pressure of your nipple against my sternum is more precise than water’s power to recollect, but water is what remains. The ruins of yesterday channelled through eroding banks, a twisting sense of purpose halted in a sinkhole. What washes my body wakes my mind. Just one allowed and...

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PennySands | pennysands.blogspot.com Reviews

<META> DESCRIPTION

Thursday, 3 November 2011. I cross this river to remember. Nothing waits on the other side. It is the crossing that is memory. Cold water currents wrap my naked flesh with words. Touch, my only truth, my singular companion. The pressure of your nipple against my sternum is more precise than water’s power to recollect, but water is what remains. The ruins of yesterday channelled through eroding banks, a twisting sense of purpose halted in a sinkhole. What washes my body wakes my mind. Just one allowed and...

<META> KEYWORDS

1 at first light

2 by penny sands

3 a death wake

4 death river

5 keeping alive river

6 all so complicated

7 enough remembering

8 i need touch

9 clinical facts

10 lacerated left breast

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at first light,by penny sands,a death wake,death river,keeping alive river,all so complicated,enough remembering,i need touch,clinical facts,lacerated left breast,shredded lower lip,the penultimate bloodletting,slaughter,sustenance,jenny called,it’s late

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PennySands | pennysands.blogspot.com Reviews

https://pennysands.blogspot.com

Thursday, 3 November 2011. I cross this river to remember. Nothing waits on the other side. It is the crossing that is memory. Cold water currents wrap my naked flesh with words. Touch, my only truth, my singular companion. The pressure of your nipple against my sternum is more precise than water’s power to recollect, but water is what remains. The ruins of yesterday channelled through eroding banks, a twisting sense of purpose halted in a sinkhole. What washes my body wakes my mind. Just one allowed and...

INTERNAL PAGES

pennysands.blogspot.com

1

PennySands: May 2011

http://pennysands.blogspot.com/2011_05_01_archive.html

Tuesday, 31 May 2011. A painter can feel indigo, violet, chartreuse. A musician can smell Asus7, D minor. Fiona can taste love, taste with the precision of a tongue that runs up over the Adam’s Apple, around the chin, deep between lips. If colour is to life as music is to soul, Fiona is all fire as hunger is to desperation. Men have been drawn to fire since the moment evolution differentiated them from the child bearers. An axe, matches, a few dead branches and Castle beer. If you can resist braaing.

2

PennySands: April 2011

http://pennysands.blogspot.com/2011_04_01_archive.html

Thursday, 21 April 2011. Mother called them the Slipping Years. The sound of it is more graceful than the experience of it—hours gathering together in discontinuous arrangements of place and routine, the hours garnished with mismatched smells, alien touch, cluttered names. One sits next to oneself, conversing over tea. I have tried to retrieve the shape of these years, attempted to collect the diaspora of my mind into a single container. But one labels boxes as one lives. The herbs are not so tame. And t...

3

PennySands: August 2011

http://pennysands.blogspot.com/2011_08_01_archive.html

Monday, 29 August 2011. Tell me your name cradle snatcher. Yes, I thought so. I can smell your slow easy trickle. Taste you before you land and burrow to the depths. I know your whisper ahead of your pummelling advance, your insatiable love of dust and ready crops. I built a container for you once. I pried boulders and rocks from this koppie, pushed them across the valley to the parched river bed and piled them into a four metre high wall, cliff edge to cliff edge. Who could have imagined the bounty?

4

PennySands: November 2011

http://pennysands.blogspot.com/2011_11_01_archive.html

Thursday, 3 November 2011. I cross this river to remember. Nothing waits on the other side. It is the crossing that is memory. Cold water currents wrap my naked flesh with words. Touch, my only truth, my singular companion. The pressure of your nipple against my sternum is more precise than water’s power to recollect, but water is what remains. The ruins of yesterday channelled through eroding banks, a twisting sense of purpose halted in a sinkhole. What washes my body wakes my mind. Just one allowed and...

5

PennySands: September 2011

http://pennysands.blogspot.com/2011_09_01_archive.html

Tuesday, 13 September 2011. The penetration is routine, efficient. If it’s meant to have emotional content, this does not occur to 68 year old George. He loosens his belt, lowers his pants, and bends over the low cement wall beneath the Gewone Bokdrol tree. Most evenings after dusk. Usually it is a small task to get his pants just right again, cinched up on the belly and fastened. George turns to sit on the wall and Frikkie hands him a bottle of bottom shelf brandy for a short shot. This life began on an...

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PennySands

Thursday, 3 November 2011. I cross this river to remember. Nothing waits on the other side. It is the crossing that is memory. Cold water currents wrap my naked flesh with words. Touch, my only truth, my singular companion. The pressure of your nipple against my sternum is more precise than water’s power to recollect, but water is what remains. The ruins of yesterday channelled through eroding banks, a twisting sense of purpose halted in a sinkhole. What washes my body wakes my mind. Just one allowed and...

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