A WALK TO BE WILD

A WALK TO BE WILD

Today, I took a Ballardian walk through the world

Beside the A40 ‘Expressway,’  which was neither

Barren or eerie as a torrent of cars tremoured past.

Moving concentrically out from my home,

I became a miniature Iain Sinclair, Andrew Kotting,

Chris Petit, foraging for a future among the shards,

Stones, and shrapnel of an already splintering age,

Which can’t last. Half a baby deer folds, prostrate

While a flattened dog greets me later; fleshed

 

Hieroglyphs, each denoting this Oxford headed

But nevertheless, urban run towards Hell.

Even the electric blue sky seems to speak of more

Infernal and internalised pressures, while I stumble

Blindly, stones slicing my plimsolls, as the sweat

In my shorts numbs need’s spell. Once again,

I’m reduced, another casualty for the taking,

To be crushed perhaps by the lorry that is

Delivering food to my street: packaged bliss.

Police vans sidle me, but I receive no

Reprimands from them, as my oppressed

Face is still naked, unknown to either mask,

Or fresh kiss. But then at last, it is found;

An unearthly paradise within Denham: a country

Park that part shimmers as this suburban

Shangri La golds life’s black. There is sculpted

Golf course and Green. A Country Club and dream

River. A leaning tree perfect through the turns

In its bark, for my back. Is this the Afterworld

In Zone Six? Have I truly passed between

Borders? Or is this near orgasmic enclosure

That runs as far as Watford, Springsteen’s

Tunnel of Love, or, Nicks’ Dreams, along which

We’re all headed or, more certainly the numbed

Shocks of Tommy, Townshend’s, that is:

It’s too good. I know that I should change

My middle name now to another four lettered

One: Wary. As I cannot shake the feeling,

Despite the footage of sun and clear sky

That there is something else on its way.

Storms’ sly calms do not cure me.

And instead it feels scary as this perfect season

At such a horrific time, part pleads ‘Why?’

Why these idyllic days? Why so still?

And why walk from Uxbridge to Denham?

It is only two or three miles, but feels endless,

And the wildness within claims its kill.

For what was settled before has made a dream

By day to unnerve me; a gathering fear

Of the future heralded sadly by both the fallen

Deer and the dog, who, squandered and bereft

Became the worst of all outcomes, even as

The sun’s independence  waved a star speckled

Flag for our God. Who seems to peer from afar,

Watching worms turn, and burroughing into

The torn earth beneath us, as we slip and stagger,

While hoping for something bright to shine through,

Or, to bolster the soil, and ease the weeds growing

Wildly, freeing our blood from contagion as both

Veins and river return to a once treasured blue.

I walked to this place as my prize, even while

I did suffer for it. In the perfect calm, David

Covid, Mr Wary himself, saw it all. All of the past

Has been placed. And he can no longer think

Of that woman. And while his parents remain

His vast landscape, he: I must to learn

To walk a new way.

Across the contours and fields that will rise

To reshape us. And so I make for home,

My legs wasted. And my second crime

Is committed. Having left my house,

I speed to it.

I will get the bloody bus home today.

David Erdos May 8^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.