A DOMINATRIX ON HER DAY OFF

A DOMINATRIX ON HER DAY OFF

Stories of uplift, or not:

And so, John K. journeys on, collecting his own tales

Through the shopping. As he delivers, he gathers

Impressions and snatches from the empty outside.

He sees as he drives the almost parodied homes

We’re all kept in, as former humour meets horror

And our human zoos fester to become an Animal House

Fear divides. John delivers the rudiments of breakfast

And Lunch to a sandwiched block of flats that astound

Him; he describes it as a ‘prime place for perverts,’

Each window gangbanging another, so close are the lives

And the victims helplessly trapped, and part baked.

Food is his means as if Jesus were constructing shelves

Now for Lidl. He surely wouldn’t for Waitrose,

But would it be bread and fish now, or cake?

Something sweet to seduce, as John delivers groceries

Like a gospel, but one that is left on the doorstep,

Drawing the residents to it like kittens when the time

Finally arrives for the bowl. Some understand

And some don’t. With the elderly far from coping,

They simply can’t lift the shopping that Sainsbury’s

Has now sold. And John can’t go in. So, he teases

And tames an old man out, like a lion, offering a chair

Out front as a stopgap, but this is where the old man sits

In the sun to take calls. So the awful image appears

Of defrosted mince and wept ice-cream, while old throats

Grow hungry and where the need to eat and survive

Leads to falls. John does what he can, as an embittered

Old woman shouts at him. He wants to deliver her

Shopping, but he is always it seems, just too close.

So they negotiate on the path and she treats him ,

Like the lion, there to consume her with contagion,

While it is only survival that he wishes for her

More than most. There is a fruity rise to John’s voice

As he sends me his impressions and sound files,

An actorly innuendo, as he studies the plight of those

Who fear coughs; from the pensioners ignorant

Of all maths as they try to assess the two-foot length

From their wheelchairs, to a mysterious tracksuit dressed

Handsome woman, who speaks to him strictly,

Reminding him of a trapped  Dominatrix forced into

An extended day off. What does S&M do in Lockdown?

One would have thought this was perfect,

As the Businessmen swathed in leather and the High

Court Judges in nappies could have stayed aroused

For two months. But even a whip can grow limp

When it hasn’t been cracked, greased, or savoured

And now the woman seems tragic, with her former force

Spent and wasted, and her clients inside their townhouses

Bound to bittersweet reminiscence of their much prized

Welts and weals, and blood lumps. Where is pleasure now

And where is the status in pleasure? As John applies

Observations this poem forms instantly. For something

Else has gone and then come: A ‘saddo’ masochism

In people as they fold in on themselves while pretending

That for the time at least they are free. They need

The lifeline John writes as he drives the empty roads

Which grow eerie. A ghost town ghost story quickly

Transmogrifies through the soap, of the opera ill sung,

Or ill rehearsed, as we mumble, keeping voice

And throat far from open, as admission, confession,

And expression too, lose all scope. The adventurists

Wilt as the Mistress toys with her cucumber as weapon.

Today it will not be inserted but will instead ‘saladise.’

It will fall into place on her plate as she regretfully strokes

Her dog collar. Meanwhile, as some of her Dogs wait

For Lorries and Vans like John’s, hungers slide.

What will become of us all when our appetites

Have been sated? And what will happen

When they cannot be fulfilled? Will we fall far,

From taste, or seek bland new means of abandon?

Or will we run mad through our houses bumping

Into walls for sad thrills? The entertainment goes on.

John sees it all through each window. The dominance

To come will oppress us and keep us all bound and gagged.

And so, John as a kind of Josef K. drives away, leaving

The suspected Dominatrix behind him, her reverie, near

Romantic as she considers the numerous prides she has bagged.

‘Those were the days’, she will think when you could reduce

A man to near nothing, that is, before Covid did it,

By taking her playground away. Sex was skill then,

Through which the darkness in dreams was delivered.

Now in its place, there is waiting for some strange new

Desire to be introduced and then ordered,

Boxed and bound and transported and with space

On the shelves, precariously put on display.

I think of this woman myself and the special charge

Which has failed her. As she sucks the static and I chew

My lip, hope’s not saved. But it is chased, all the same,

Even while being chastened. As we drag through drains

For desire and howl in our houses, ready perhaps

For a mistress to take us on and out.

Hope feels frayed.   

David Erdos, May 3rd 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.