ANOTHER KILLER

ANOTHER KILLER

Sixteen people have died from domestic abuse

Since the lockdown. The Covidian Age, like the Ice-Age

Has started to chill blood and mind. A 700% increase

Has occurred across the various helplines, as Corona’s

Brutal accomplice slides into the fear trapped hands

And divides. This is a difficult poem to write,

With words reflecting those who are cornered,

Not only with their own private monster, possibly

Raging now while you read, but also the fact

That there is nowhere left they can run to,

As doors prove as brittle as assaulted skin

When it bleeds. What frees the monstrous in us?

Opportunity, or containment? While some lose

Jobs there are victims beyond any hospital

Granted bed. There are the women and children

At home, near cannibalised through frustration,

As rage and fear fill abusers who can only

Make their point through the dead. This is not

A silent panic at all, but with the doors

And windows closed, who can hear it?

That tree still falls in far forest and kills

All manner of life in its wake. And with

Television obsessed with the same tired genre,

We see once more one more murder

And one more paedophile for who’s sake?

Not God’s, certainly. Unless the Biblical Age

Has restated. Alongside the iced rim of Covid,

A dark testament spits and sparks. It contains

No parables and no healing lessons. It is simply

Blood and destruction and God taking his piss

In the dark. Now that piss covers us

And the taste of it turns to acid. The fiery ones

Wreak contagion of a different sort on those

Close. With such statistics we see that some

Will never be cleansed through this culling.

They will not emerge with fresh wisdom,

There will be no vaccine for them.

No calm new command. No sweet dose.

For yet another killer has come to take their place

In the schedule. And this is one you can’t turn off,

Or theorise far from view. There is no conspiracy

Here, to countenance or interpret. There is,

Simply horror and the weakness within, and stark

Truth. Many find people good. I hope they are.

But these others: what do we do now to stop them,

As a character like Robert Wyatt’s strange Richard

Is corrupted by something that makes him terrorise

His poor Ruth? In the light of these facts,

Everything becomes darker. As you’re safe tonight,

Someone isn’t. Under these gorgeous skies,

There is bruising; a thoroughly corrosive black.

A scorched blue.

David Erdos April 27th 2020 8.30pm

For more poems from David Erdos visit The Corona Diaries collection 

David Erdos is an actor, writer, director with over 300 professional credits. He is a published poet, playwright, essayist and illustrator. He has lectured on all disciplines in theatre and film for leading performing arts colleges, schools and universities around the world. His books include EASY VERSES FOR DIFFICULT TIMES, THE SCAR ON THE CLOUD, OIL ON SILVER, NEWS FROM MARS, CHANGING PLACES WITH LIGHT (penniless press) and BYZANTIUM with the photographer Max Reeves. He is a contributing editor for The International Times and maker of documentaries all over the world. David’s work has been acclaimed by many leading figures including Harold Pinter, Heathcote Williams, Alan Moore, Andrew Kotting, Chris Petit and Iain Sinclair in whose recent book THE LAST LONDON, David features. He can be reached at David.erdos@sky.com.

David Erdos

©    David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.