FROM TOM WAITS TO THE ROAD
FROM TOM WAITS TO THE ROAD
Fears of fascism rise in my Holocaust heart, I’ll be honest.
As I falter before coming futures, it's like the Tom Waits song
About sheds: ‘What’s He Building In There?’ But it's what they’re
Constructing now that’s the question, as all external shapes
Alter and I consider what it must be like to be dead.
By which I mean divorced from the love of life we all treasure.
People have adapted now to this normal and the acceptance
Of that duly chills. It seems an inconceivable thing
That the Sci-Fi plots once derided, are starting to form
A fresh context that contains societal hate as love spills.
If an economy falls every piece of loose change soon
Scatters. Scrambling for the surplus, sharp hungers reach
Will scratch far. Today, the sun’s dark but I look for light
And fresh prospects, while a woman I care for is reduced
To living out of her car. This could well be The Road
Along which we may travel. But unlike Cormac McCarthy,
Or other dystopian dreams it feels near. There is always
A distance to tales, which is a method perhaps to grant
Warnings, and yet across this light, this horizon,
I glimpse shadows in mist that won’t clear.
It is still hard to define which side of worry
To stand on. The days turn their heads and continue,
While we bow our own and back down. The days
No longer love us, it seems, losing the shape and shade
We shared with them. Suddenly, other lovers
Have courted and stroked their sundown.
I think of the soft down on the face of a woman
I loved in the old life. I think of her widening smile
And the dusk light that conjured a form of transparency
Through her skin, and then consider today, unsure
Of which was fact and which fiction. As I hold
Each book, they lose pages, as if even writing itself
Could not win. There were stories we wrote and songs
Used as soundtrack. Two months ago, all was normal,
A friends night out, work and choice.
But now the symphony has been fused
With Tom Waits’ broken rumble. The shed is closed.
The road open. And the fear in my throat rich
And moist. My words are weeping perhaps for loves
Who are lost and in peril. One friend weak from chemo
Has been left vulnerable, yet adroit. While another
Can work and another receives celebratory gifts
From her agent. It all feels like tuning, before a Fanfare
That claims us. Each dark sound drums and cellos
And a grand great howl provides voice.
What are they building? We’ll see, even if that is
From a distance. Just let it not be transported.
The road is ours, still:
When the time is right
We’ll Convoy.
David Erdos April 18th 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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