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.




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