CORONA, CORONA
By David Erdos
CORONA, CORONA
As the climate freezes itself into cubes,
It strives to contain heated virus;
As dangerous breath breaks on windows
The splinters soon spear all those close.
From what was Chinese,
Now Canary Wharf issues warnings,
Quarantined in Kent, or approaching
These struck London towers,
The stark fears of such demote hope.
Perhaps the overseeing ‘Godforce’ has inhaled
Then blowjobbed back its protection,
As man ejaculates, frightened, the fluid
release
Overspends. With chance of salvation
Withdrawn, or if not withdrawn,
Then diminished, sensation, truncated
Becomes the tremours and shakes fear extends.
What can be enjoyed? Breakfast? Lunch,
Or the supposed comforts of dinner,
Each one a potential last meal at this moment,
In which everyone who eats is condemned.
The title of this poem puns
On an old Bob Dylan number,
Just as it charts and minstrels the sly design
Of a sickness that has made the semblance
Of health, slick pretense. We are the dead.
No surprises there, let’s be honest,
But if we’re dying now from contagion,
Derived from cell, or lab, who defends?
Are there truly governments behind ours,
Actively plotting extinction, so as to enact
The last strumming of The Ballad of Man
As it ends? Will every singer grow hoarse,
And each larynx phantom? Will we rise as
ghosts
From the barrel while still rolling on,
towards doom?
Or are those unknown plotters in rooms
Hacking at themselves for fresh chapters,
In which our extinction, from cancer or this,
Calls the tune? People we know wish us dead,
Even if their actual names part escape us.
Perhaps there’s new language for the schemers
And finks we can’t see. The collaborators who
break
Through the corrupted skin of spent cities,
Siring themselves to oppressors, and cashing
us in,
Forcefully. The Corona arose with perfect
timing,
With the shock of Trump and of Brexit
And the Australian burn in the bush.
It was as if Moses returned and looked to God
For expression, only to find that God smote
With locusts; now, will new first borns
Meet death’s hush? The masks allay mist,
Invisible, yet intrusive. On trains now and
buses
We terrify ourselves through the seats.
But now even the masks have run out,
Dousing
each protest song before singing,
Finally Science Fiction has made our facts
And day feel complete. We are in a horror
comic,
Right now, or perhaps a ghost story.
With naturalism now legend, they will sing of
us
In dark times, that will look to our own
As the progenitor of avoidance;
For we did not stop to question
And as cancelled Kings, lost our throne.
.
On a ruined path, aeons on,
A mutant Dylan squarks boldly;
His broken tone will rouse Angels
As they fall stunned from clouds:
He’s alone. David Erdos 29th February 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.
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| David Erdos |
© David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.
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