Edge Of The World

I sit at the edge of the world

waiting for the end

will it come fast or slow?

if she's here, will she know

what to do if I drop

and won't wake up?

I sit at the edge

wait for the end (of the world)

this bed provides comfort

but it's not my friend.

outside grows greyer

I screen it away

blindness protects

from the harshness of day..

I sit at the edge of the world

wait for the end

will I choke on the blood

or the vomit or bile?

will it be instantaneous

or go on for a while?

will it hurt or feel dreamy?

will my last cries be heard?

I sit at the edge

wait for the end of the word

I had it here somewhere

the perfect reprise

a shimmering spirit

who giddies the skies..

I sit at the end

and wait for the courage (to take me..)

I suppose I ought to add a little something about this pieces's provenance just in case anyone is concerned: 

Dealing with chronic pain and more than one defined ongoing illness can often, for me at least, bring up a sense of something that could be insensitively described as a vivid dose of hypochondria or, more sympathetically, as an acute awareness of death's ever reaching fingers drawing close - making it's presence felt through an increased intensity of usual symptoms with additional new strains of discomfort - a seemingly random pulsing vein here, an occasional eye twitch there and/or some unusual stomach spasms for example. Perhaps at night there is also a feverish heat emanating from the neck rising to the lower skull..

All these happenings can easily conspire to make one think about the inevitability of leaving this life and act as a reminder that the departure board can change it's details of time, destination, even mode of transport, any time it pleases. There are no guarantees and (as was made abundantly clear in the small print) any deposits made are unlikely to be refunded.

Whilst it is seldom enjoyable to ponder these things for any extended period of time, I feel sure that acknowledging the existence and inevitability of death is a healthier way to live than denial and pretence.. Perhaps.. 

Maybe this is all subjective. Besides, my intention was to explain that Edge Of The World is a poem that comes from this kind of pondering rather than any desire to deliberately accelerate the process or indeed charter one's own private train to Elsewhere. I hear cancellations and delays are forecast anyway..

Until next time, may your days be filled with love & kindnesses :) xx

The Papered Cracks

What is this pounding in my chest?
This hollowed out container, emptied
scoop by scoop; no vanilla tones here

only bitter spices, aniseed rising,
cinnamon smothering the airways,
coating sugar with lime.

Plates and bowls crashing heavily,
cupboard doors slammed shut too tight -
tightness in my chest implodes as

kitchen noise reverberates through the skull,
landmines collapse the heart’s will to live -
undermined, undernourished, underfed.

A repetition of epic proportions -
no portion too large to share.
Colour drains from all our faces.

Time stood still whilst pain kept falling,
washing away all sense of truth
leaving nothing but fear, catastrophised

upon the table, wooden boards laid
plank to plate - a guest house where
no-one wants to stay. Alone

in corners facing inwards, the child,
unhappy seeks redemption from the walls.
The papered cracks scream for attention

and a kindness that seems so obscure,
so impossible to reach, but I can see
it disappearing around each bend

and I follow, hopeful, scared but hope
will always be my friend even when
I can no longer feel his bones, fragile

pieces of him and me and him and them
ground down by the pressure cooker
releasing steam in erratic rhythms,

puffing and screeching her requirements,
her disappointments and regrets. Still
heaping overcooked piles of veg, steaming

hot as fire to burn your tongue -
stop the words from forming, throwing
us off our game. Whose turn is it now?

Biting down on bloody lips, whispered
words of attempted comfort evaporating
in the frosty air. Knives cutting

every string of emotion, all connections
severed at the nub, just below the bud -
there will be no flowering this year again,

no seasoning on this scorched flesh, dry
almost tasteless on the tongue and
who’s got yours now? So quiet,

tiptoeing over broken milk and spilled shells,
crunching precariously between the highs
and the oh, so low lows of teatime.

Mix-Tape 4 - The Sweet Darkness - Dec2018

Words to accompany my latest Spotify mix-tape The Sweet Darkness - Dec2018

Our final Mix-Tape of 2018 is The Sweet Darkness. It comes with a story so let’s gather round the fireside, blankets pulled up close, press shuffle (or play in date order as you wish) and allow ourselves to get lost in the flicker & glow of the flames as the music pulls us into a dream. This is no festive frolic - more a venture into the dark depths of winter’s renewing wonderland. So, pull on the thick, hooded cloak of friendship, grab an oil filled lantern of good hope and take my hand as we embark down a musical rabbit hole on a journey into the dreamy darkness of Winter…

Goodbye England (Covered In Snow). The Nightfall Pale Blue drifts down over this place where The World Is A Ghetto and the Hourglass is Falling, Catching the last beams of daylight behind the Winter Trees. We’ll leave the Dirty Old Town behind us this December Day, Burning Bridges as we go.

‘Everybody Loves You! Wdsg?’ the Villagers’ Fool yells down from a flaming flyover, running towards us with a toothless grin. He offers us V4 Fake Sugar which we politely decline as we pass by The River where Club 8 are Swimming With The Tide and Avril tries to Keep Her Head Above Water.

Turning away, we enter the enchanted forest through a Tunnel of evergreen hedgerow. Radio Silence falls and for a moment or two we are overwhelmed by the peaceful lushness of ancient trees and wild flowers blooming proudly in the moonlight. The cool calm covers us in a blanket of Serenity whilst high above in the canopy, Bowie sings his Opus ‘Wild Is The Wind’ from a glittering trapeze swing, making us sway with vicarious Vertigo as we watch the tails of his turquoise suit floating behind him like wings, a yellow rose in his lapel.

‘No CD!’ he calls down to us, dropping The Rose at our feet like a Sacrifice. We both move to pick it up, but before we get a chance, Eric appears from behind an old, beautifully snarled oak and holds up a warning hand.

‘Let It Grow’ he advises of the lemon flower and ushers us towards a new path. ‘Please Be With Me’.

We follow him into the darkest part of the wood where the trees have joined upper limbs to create a chamber-like arbour in which Cat’s Eyes glower in the gloom at the only Girl In The Room. Myela is stuck in a groove, lost in her past, Always whirling around singing,

‘Who Hurt Who on the 25th Of Last December? Now I’m Dancing On My Own…’.

We spin around the dancefloor with her for a moment until she disappears into the misty darkness and we sense another presence hovering behind us.

‘Is Someone Out There?’ we call through the greying murk. The only response is a repeated refrain of our voices echoing back and forth. A crunch of footsteps finds us spinning around again.

This time we spy Muse lurking in the shadows, softly tempting us to The Dark Side three times over in their Alternate Reality. We find ourselves drifting towards them when suddenly Lily runs over exclaiming,

‘I’ve Lost My Mind! If you find it, please Send To Robin Immediately!’

She hands us a battered leaflet with the faded headline ‘Things It Would Have Been Helpful To Know Before The Revolution’ before running off into the trees. What does it mean? It feels like a relic from another world.

‘Tough Love’ mutters Iggy Pop swinging down off the back of a passing Three Oh Nine bus. As he walks alongside us, we notice the landscape has changed to a more urban environment and we amble, unsettled, along the edge of a raucous city park complete with deafening fairground and dizzying carousels.

Iggy, sensing our desire to return somewhere quieter and more familiar, indicates towards the grand houses on the other side of the street and explains,

‘This is where The Pure And The Damned reside. Have you tried Thinking Of A Place When There’s Love?’ This seems like portentous advice, but we can hear Roberta inviting us to join her party. Glancing at your face, I can see you Feel Like Me and that we’re doing better than we’ve ever been, so we follow Minnie’s suggestion to ‘Close Your Eyes And Remember’ and cover our faces in gloved hands.

The Chromatics’ Camera clicks into place (and we love it despite the outrageously banging donk on it!) Opening our eyes, we find ourselves in a clearing surrounded by painted rose brambles and silver birch. In the centre of the clearing sits an enchanting, wood-framed, cob cottage bathed in a welcoming flickering glow. Like instinctive Detectorists we know we will B. Inspired to find the gifts waiting for us inside, so we head towards the golden fireside to tell our stories and sing our songs assured that Love Will lead us home.

The End.

Enjoy the holidays. Much love, Rache xx