AT THE TABLE

AT THE TABLE                                                          

There is a new sense of wariness now.

I can almost feel it slide between sunlight,

Easing itself into garments and assuming

The shape of all men. And all women, too,

As this doesn’t discriminate across race

Or gender, but is far more concerned

With slipped spirit, squandered heart

And soul, slick pretence.  It isn’t our fault;

Its design, a form of dark engineering:

Government dictate, or Diktat, delivered

Satellite sharp from on high,

Which is clearly making us low, and suspicious,

It seems, of each other. As neighbours go out,

Or jog past me I think I observe agendas

At play, hear soft lies.

              

From biting and somewhat

Wild winds at night, to the melting of Dali’s

Clocks in the daylight, time’s stamp and purpose

Has become in losing scale, quite surreal.

As if there were melting points in us all,

As we start to seep across tables- at which I write:

Mine’s a life-raft and a trusted place no fate steals.

But now it teeters somewhat, as this sea of heat

Swells to claim me. It shifts my shore and reduces

The permanence of home, hearth and place.

I am at war with my face, as I attempt to shield

Myself through the shadow, as an insufferable sun

Tries to douse me, forcing me ever inwards,

And down to a final point without trace.

It feels like we are being shaken as dice.

There is a tempest here while I’m sitting.

My sinus releases and then blocks again,

Breath by breath. This is an unbelievable time

In which every newsflash is Bible, and the way

Of words alters the range of testaments we have left.

Nothing suits. Nothing saves. What we thought

Was real loses purchase. The once prized

Objects now are as abstract as Miro, or Salvador,

Baked by fame. Only food is the goal, as if fuel

Equalled fire. But meanwhile that heat roars

And rages and the person I was fans the flame.

The fear of being ill, makes you ill. The fear

Of losing hold sets you spinning. And so,today,

At my table I melt and play my part in the game.

A friend of mine yesterday saw a group of Police

In a cafe. There were no masks, no precautions,

And a low rumble of plans as they laughed.

They ate their eggs, chips and beans and spat

And chewed over orders. Sunnyside up we’re all

Frying, but for who or what forms the task?

And so that wary feeling hacks up,

Like the inveterate sneezes that claim me.

Around Johnson’s table, and Trump’s bland bib,

What’s the deal? I can’t breathe properly and all

I have is a headcold. Can I feel the gas slinking

Slowly? With the grand oven outside, its blaze seals.

Something’s not right. I just can’t put my fucked

Finger on it. And so I grasp the table.

Using the pen as a needle and these words

As balm.

Watch it heal.

David Erdos   April 16^th 2020

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.