To be a river in the next life would be, Busy, refreshing, timeless and free, The water rushing, swirling, passing all by, While on my banks, beautiful trees sway, Colourful birds screeching their calls, Fly up and far away. My banks cut through bright green fields, I can see busy machinery and people cutting wheat, While nearby sheep and cattle meander down to drink and wet their feet, I’d be sorry to leave behind the quiet countryside, Further along my banks I’d find a hectic busy loud city, Finally, here I am, the end of the river mouth to pour into the sea, Timeless this river, never an end, Another new life for me.
This poem was written by my late mother, Christine Elaine Verkys, while she fruitlessly battled a terminal disease to stay with us. She was the very lifeforce of our family, and after she passed, sadly so did everything else. Personally, there have been few happy days since. Me a River features on her memorial stone, which stays with me to this day.
A dreamer’s eyes open, suddenly and wide, accompanied by a gasp for air, It feels as though the sleeper has been brought to life for the first time, The confusion passes, and they acclimatise to this new red sunlit world, Standing high on a dune, the dreamer looks down on a black city lit by red lights, This world of exploration is dusty and dim, as the dreamer enters the city limits, It seems lifeless, countless tall glossy black metallic buildings stretch upwards, Every dark doorway is scarlet lit, there is no sound here other than the wind, No birds sing, no sounds of human commotion, just an empty silent expanse, The dreamer stands in the middle of a sand-covered road, paved with dark stone, The wind whips sand into the sleeper’s eyes, as the sound of a low deep hum rumbles, From the bowels of the earth, the dreamer feels the vibration through the road, And as the sun begins to fall, the darkness brings sinister tidings, From the black alcoves along the street, countless glowing red eyes appear, The glowing eyes follow the dreamer while they cautiously walk among the black towers, Again, the deep horn rumbles with a hum, and the sound of 1000 whispering voices begins, The whispers are almost deafening, it feels as though they are inside the dreamer’s head, With ears covered, the run begins, a left turn here, a right turn there, and into a side street, Black metal streetlights line the roadway, all glowing with a vivid red glow, In the dusty darkness at the end of the street, crooked black creatures with red eyes spill out, They cut off any escape, they rapidly approach, driving the dreamer back towards the dunes, The pavement soon becomes deep sand and a steep incline, where feet sink and slip, The creatures are still in pursuit, the whispering intensifies as the dreamer struggles to move, Coal black arms burst from the sand clutching the dreamer’s clothing and limbs, Many unnaturally long arms clasp and pull the dreamer face down onto the dune side, The sand below the dune begins to give way revealing an enormous gaping mouth, Tentacle-like arms begin to drag the dreamer into the mouth from where they originate, In an instant the dreamer is devoured, the mighty jaws snap shut before sinking into the sand, Silence falls, the city empties, the red sun rises, and on the top of the dune, A new pair of eyes open, suddenly and wide, accompanied by a new dreamer’s gasp for air
Your silver face shimmers in my eyes, The touch of your cold metal buttons is electric, You’re uncovered, a needle is revealed, and my senses heighten, My fingers dance across narrow spines, as I make my selection, I first remove the sleeve, then the coal black circle, Gently set down, the ritual is almost complete, Of all the needle tracks, I choose the first one, With one movement of your arm, the world spins, A sweet sound fills the air and nourishes my mind, I see green lights, orange lights, and golden-lit gauges, As the black circle spins, I’m filled with powerful memories, You are a portal, my time machine, my hi-fi, You are my beloved silver Akai.
I could literally rip the skin and flesh from my face right now, I am not in my own mind, I am not even in my own postcode, My self-hate is so powerful, so invincible, The effort to hold it back is beyond comprehension, I hate myself with so much vigor and venom tonight, No rhyme, no reason, just self-disgust and anger, I make no sense, I am bad company, I am not to be around, I scratch as the fan passes, I clench until its return, I want to be the kind me, but I am unable to connect, I am rocking, thinking, hating, trying to exist. Tonight I AM the monster of rumour.
A time comes when you know that you are barbed, Self-protective and in need of personal shelter, Right now, is one of those times, I have virtual thorns on my skin and in my brain, Time to stay away from my dear ones, Time to stay away from NOT dear ones, Time to be charged, and remain alone, Recognizing and communicating mood with my closest, That my nuclear level is at maximum, It’s vital to all around, Find the right music now, Find the right mix to sooth now, Find a way to dull the thorns now, Find a way to ‘control’ now, The poison has removed the pain of a life in thorns, Until now, and until tomorrow.
After a bad day today, I sat reminiscing about simpler times, about my youth, When music was king, and most of what I did revolved around it, I’d slide a record from its sleeve, put it on the turntable and sit back, Nothing felt rushed, dreams felt ripe and reachable, and the music played, Occasional trips to a record store, when they were plentiful and local, Gazing at album covers, putting up posters, and reading lyrics, while the music played, Bands influenced the way I dressed, the way I thought, music was everywhere, My pride and joy, a silver Akai sound system, it was everything, it made my music play, It was my best trade ever, a carton of beer, for the soundtrack to my teen years, It’s something that I’ve tried to recapture later in life, but the joy isn’t quite the same, New bands don’t offer the same appeal as they once did, when did I become so cynical, However, like a time machine, my turntable takes me back to when the music played, To when the air of life itself felt charged with electricity, music, and endless possibilities.
Dan Verkys 