MANNA FROM HEATHENS

MANNA FROM HEATHENS

While we all await the safe word that releases

The locked from day slumbers,

                                                  A friend receives

Grout Reviver in order to further seal

His prized home. With such substances sourced

For the real and with Amazon Prime as his and our

Herald Driver, do we all become sound connivers

In secrets that will allow us to feel less alone?

And what else is delivered? Masks. Soap.

CDs without antiseptic. Food, if we’re lucky,

And if we’re unlucky, then a bracing walk

To closed shops. If only hope came in a signed

And sealed easy package we’d each feel delivered

In both the known and Biblical sense with each drop.

It is the modern manner of course to use

Such services as distraction. But let us be aware

Of Jeff Bezos, Amazon and the world’s richest

Man, profiting from our loss, as we scour the net

For small spaces, holes in which those left empty

Can try to feel whole again through thin plans.

This manna that falls truly does come from

The Heathens who have made desperation

Religion, and sinners of us all, calling cull.

Or something like it, no doubt, to break the seal

That surrounds us, and which, once its bartered,

Will like the virus, infiltrate stream and skull.

Will Bezos understand and appreciate? No.

His form of capitalism is a construct.

There to build a division between his one man

Nation state and our own. Just as those others

Build too; the one percent who through what they

Have achieved believe they should rule us.

With each of us rendered subjects, this handful

Of shades smear all thrones. And so we work on.

With grouting, plastering, rewiring, painting,

We spare a lick to our houses while others still

Order them. What do we need and not need?

What in the end is dispensed with? For memories

Are possessions, just as in due course we’ll cling

Onto the flailing ghosts of our friends. We will be

Haunting each other, alive, with each phone

And laptop screen as a portal. Poorer, I fear,

In resources but with a spirit I hope that stays rich,

While those far removed, apply more than grouting

Paste to what guards them. As they stare down on us

We spit skywards. Let that watered curse shock

And stun them and may it in turn cause the twitch

That inflames their hot eye, as we carry on cooling.

Sealed by cement, the step hardens, and yet,

As with Hell and with Heaven and an effort

Of will

                        The foot twists.

David Erdos   April 19th 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.