CUMMINGS AND GOINGS

CUMMINGS AND GOINGS

Would Hitler have dumped Eva Braun?

He needed her slavish concession.

The analogy in the UK is that Hitler

Isn’t even the one who’s PM.

No, our bloated blonde Eva backgrounds

By constructing a 3D photocopy

Of presence, while his slick shadow

Is sliming, and staining our day

For their ends. Which seem to seek

All of ours, after his too long career

Of disruption. His former Brexit

Enticements and lie laced legacy

Still affront. What is your real agenda,

You word that should not be used in polite

Company, or, too freely, but which is all

We have to explode you, as the merest

Thought, or glimpse of you fires

My screaming need to be blunt.

Which is the sort of object you need

To bludgeon the darkness that’s in you,

As the idiots strings you are strumming

Create the stark discord and souring song

Hate can shape. As Priti Moronic Patel

Vinegars her tasteless word Salad, and her

Stupidity and brutishness make me bridle

When I see that (un)knowing little smile

On her face. Glamourised in a film,

For which recently, the playwright

Sought forgiveness, this fucking spectre,

In a hoodie and defiant disarray is the threat.

His viciousness is compared to Rod Hull’s

Violent Emu, as demands are delivered

To Bore-is, to see him quartered or drawn

At the neck. Which is what all should do

If they had the bald bastard before them,

In some former England, stocked and bound

In the soft Village Square, where the former

Transgressors were tried for the damages

Wrought on the People, which could include

His breathless Babylon health wheeze

With Hancock; whose murky connection

And endorsements would make the dead Tony

And Sid spark and swear. Cummings advised

This AI initiative implemented, as Matt Hancock

Soon bubbled his own misaligned foaming joy.

There is more to write on all this. Cummings

Crimes now stack up with the rotten fruit

I’d cast at him. Fruit whose own acids would

No doubt repel at the contact with this

Particular form of bad boy. If his mother

Adores him, good luck, but how can you

Explain such a person, for this supposed

County Durham World bound Non-Sherriff

Has no right to the Law and no love.

For he does not serve us. He serves only

The smeared seat of power. We are merely

The effects he engenders when he deigns

To make his move on the board, in blue gloves.

Apparently, someone so connected and prized

Could not even trust Private Nurses to care

For his son, so he travels, nearly three hundred

Miles through roadblocks. My rage at him knows

No bounds. And neither does he, breaking

Lockdown. A phrase he will have coined on his

Whiteboard, along with Take Black Control,

As hopes drop. For it is a form of dark incantation

He writes, in which we aren’t even the images

That he conjures. Instead, we are the misused

Punctuation; as his ideas soar, we are stopped.

We are the pawns that bore him as he starts

To move the chess pieces. In the Coronic Game,

He’s the Watchman who truly believes he’s a God.

Dr Westminster, perhaps. So, he flouts his own

Rules, as Andrew Marr marrs Grant Knapps

Thin excuses, and (un) Priti Patel smirks

And produces her pathetic attempts to show Plot.

For this isn’t even about Parties now.

This is about Individuals: all of us as we suffer,

And as we worry and die on all lines, and then

All of THEM, who deserve NO POSITION

AT ALL, whether it is the orange Cancer of Donald

Testing ‘Positive Towards the Negative’ (Prick)

Or BJ. Or worst of all, this small C, who nobody

Chose, only Johnson, the Von Stroheim to his

Dietrich, and unmasked anti Morecambe

To his warped (un)Wise, as jokes fray.

This duo produce no care and no charm.

Dominic is just slogans. Arbeit Macht Frei,

I imagine, or, perhaps, Exit is the only real one

That he needs. His tight little bulb of a face is

As far as I can see ripe for puncture; so, lie

And leave, Cummings. But wherever you go

In the future, know that we see your damage.

And hope that your wretched soul starts

To bleed. For the misinformation you serve

And the lack of clarity, may curse find you,

For your disregard and abandon

May you one day truly need. I hope then

We can all piss on your path as Elvis Costello

Wished to tramp the dirt down over Thatcher

I hope a barren land claims you as no earth

In which you will lay will lease seed.

Damn you, your blank stare, and the puppets

You push through the motions.

Would words were fire.

I’d see your strings slack and burn

As we’re rationed, either through food

Or future, know this, you bastard:

While you pick and choose

Our rage feeds.

David Erdos May 25th 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.