THE AIR BITES

THE AIR BITES

Why is it this cold? The air’s sharp

While the sun itself seems to bosom.

London bites but seduces with his languorous

Gardens and parks. Now each bares a chastity belt,

Or bind of faith to another, with pubic grass

Lost to the public, and so, barred from stroking

The soft flesh of the ground moves to dark.

And yet still the light glares, daring us,

And while some still breach, they court danger,

Just like the ‘red vests’ in Star Trek, or the extras

In Soylent Green, Logan’s Run..  While the old, ill

And trapped must try to go out, eking themselves

Ever further, avoiding all to find landscapes

As far afield as the empty Motorway carries;

Pursuers of pleasure and the scarring nostalgia

Of sun. But not here, today. Where are you?

A cold front has been sent across London.

A front that feels like an insult as we riot and rage

In our homes. Or, perhaps start to feel the old itch

For some of those lost sensations,  in which 

If one hungered for contact then both need

And impulse were instantly assuaged and atoned.

But now there is a forcefield of sorts, like Sue Storm

In Marvels’ Fantastic Four movies, keeping us back,

Almost kicking as the lip of the light apes a kiss.

The less then fantastic in us, countless millions strong,

Strain and whimper, bracing the cold for light’s

Soothing  and risking, while weak, the chest’s twist

From cold to Covid, to what? That other far field

Or dimension? The one that is beyond Roundabout,

Junction, Motorway, sideroad, all. Only the Flyover

Seems apt, as bullish angels breath on us, all sorts

Of cloud, congealed, phlegm like,

Or like some  ocean in air, spore enthralled.

All we can do is stay in, while gulping said air

Like fish through the surface of a window. 

In separate bowls we’re surviving, but with each

In our glass, there’s a spill. That we all must contain

If we are to survive this cleansed climate.

Which bites me today where I’m living,

As if rehearsing perhaps for a kill.

The ‘wool’ has been lifted it seems

And now that once polluted air can see clearly.

With less cars on the road, the blind’s shredded

And the air itself bolsters fast. The cousined air

Calls across its familial fronts to surprise us,

And seeking calm we taste chaos, as sat alone

This strange visit, unwelcome as it is, seems to last.

I stand and stare at the light, wanting its touch,

Wanting your touch.  And yet as I do so,

The land and line both revert. I feel as if I am

Sinking, slightly and will need another period

Of adjustment; a photosynthesis of the spirit

In which I will either become like those sunken

Sea creatures or take on a new kind of root

Through the earth.

The cold sun grows me

Anew and yet I am spiralling now

To far planets,

Where carved by climate

The sky will understand my full worth. 

David Erdos   April 14^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.