CUMMING UNDONE, or ON TAKING A PISS

CUMMING UNDONE, or ON TAKING A PISS

Suddenly, he’s a Saint and the Media are the sinners

For daring to describe the sly actions that he so

Amateurishly rebuked. The Journalist Harry Lambart

Relates how the PM’s SA once referred to said Media

As irrelevant to his purpose. With today’s slap back

Forcing Cummings to seem human - right down

To at least three descriptions of his wife Mary’s puke.

Sick of course, comes in threes, so we were forewarned

Of such stories, as told by shaggy dogs, fairies, liars,

And criminals, eh M’ lud? And so he slid into sun,

As grubs will do when stones are lifted, idling his way

To a shaky canteen-like table, like a vampire seeking

Shadow in order to regain strength and blood.

A convoluted story was read with every breath

And step detailed, from house to car to somewhere

Close to Newcastle, or rather, later on, to an old one,

In order to barricade the news flood. The trouble is,

He was late, and late by thirty-two minutes.

The appointed time arrived and seemed longer

Than any normal half an hour should take.

What do you think that says, Strategist?

It says to me you were writing. As I am now,

Seeking detail, or did the Number Ten

Printer break? Were you waiting for the words

That you delivered so badly? At 4.42pm you part

Stumbled, and started to improvise from the text.

You must have been rattled for sure, what with

The sudden concerns for your eyesight,

And your wife’s apparent Corona, albeit without

A hot cough; Jeez, Dom; what next? And so you

Decided to go, slipping out while the neighbours

Were dreaming about their stopped futures

And because of extreme circumstance. Which

Was what? Some pale fear that maybe you

Had it, and so had a private Doctor confirm it,

Without the needle or swab’s sweetened dance?

I’m sure I’m not getting this right. People have

Died. What exception? Which extremity fuelled

You, as you raced away, seeking north?

I’m just trying to understand, not deny.

Afterall, you know what happened. But we don’t.

I’m no wiser, apart from your saying that the media’s

Magic wand just distorts. You didn’t even tell your

Blonde boss when Day Fifteen saw you fit for travel.

Sorry, which day was it? When you went to seek

Shelter inside your father’s outhouse? I lost when

It was you were sick and when you went out

On your test drive. Your son would be taken care

Of by your nieces if you had to return to work,

There’s no doubt. So, if you did need to return,

Undiagnosed and untested you still had to drive

Around just to measure if you could make it all

The way back to the smoke. So, you got in the car,

Which we might call a good old jalopy, to horse

Around in the country close to Castle Barnard?

It’s a joke. And then of course comes the piss

That you and your son were both taking.

As a matter of fact, the boy’s urine was

A positive river of gold in the sun. Reflected in it,

You shone, having done nothing wrong. Never ever.

A child’s invocation, if ever I heard; bubblegummed. 

If you prick it, it pops and sags across your face,

Pink tongue lagging, leaking wasted words

That politeness from the first two journalists

Also scored, as they failed to follow up, offering

A weak ‘OK’ at your answers, which I repeat,

Seemed tight plotted as you single spaced away

After Four. Apparently, you are crucial to everything

Now. Like a God. You’re trying to sort the Science

Out, and the money. Saint Dominic and Theresa

(Mother, not May) in all of these troubled days.

You search for the Vaccine and escape, and so,

Naturally prefer shadow. Which also means, truth

Is darkness if you are as important to us as you say.

Because I thought you were an advisor, you see,

But now you’re an active force, an enabler,

An unelected selection who gets to discern

What will be. But there’s a snag, a real snag,

And this is what stokes all the anger. Like a psychopath,

You kept at it and like the emotionally remote,

Through your staring you didn’t think to say

‘I’m sorry.’ You’re allowed to care for your wife

And for your son, as well, of course. Hope they’re

Better. But the trouble is you’re undone now,

So even if you win, we will see what is being done

In our name and what sort of game you are playing.

This isn’t even about different Rulebooks.

This is about secrecy. We never know the full truth.

We know that the world over. But what it actually is

Maybe acid when someone like you starts to pee.

Dominic, Dominic, there is a world full of people

(Even if you’d like them culled). And once accused,

Guilt stays with you and receives no real clemency.

Gary Gibbon had it. He said that Johnson knew

When you did it. It just didn’t concern him,

Until the public got to know through the press.

Those damned journalists who let us be in doubt

Are not angels, but whose divine command is

To tell us what is coming our way to kill next.

We get the politicians we deserve. But we didn’t

Ask for you, did we? Well, you’re a politician now,

Wiping language. In the tissue of society’s lies

We’re the Kleenex into which you cast and cough

Each dark spit. This story may pass, or you may

Contrive other stories to blur it, but just as

Your son stained the country, so you stain it too,

With bullshit. Words hang heavy, old son and

I believe there are none that will ever assuage you.

The street where you live won’t forgive you

And neither will we, for your aims. Which you

Never unveil, as we travel down through

Your darkness. Dominic, you can’t

Rewrite this. The piss is taken now.

Pass the blame?

David Erdos May 26th 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.