INCOMPLETE INTEGRITY



INCOMPLETE INTEGRITY


Outside his house, it’s all clear,
As Dominic Cummings is questioned.
Swatting the reporters away like fat flies
As they dared to question his fleeing,
The Cumstain quoted two metres,
As the distance of truth, amplified.

You worse than worm, smearing earth
As well as air, with deception. Your hard
Stare is an insult to everyone who has died.
One rule for us, another for them is the cliché,
As these cardboard monsters and cabinet
Slugs seek light’s game. Johnson scrambles

For words and ends up with a bad hand
At Scrabble, as he muffs and mutters
In attempting to defend Dom’s dark name.

Complete Integrity? Balls. You wouldn’t
Know how to spell it. Despite your supposed
Education you have learnt nothing it’s clear

Of the real. You still think you can do
What you want and that no-one will notice.
Flout the rules. Plot in secret, and benefit
Of course, from all deals. And yet actions
Like this expose the naked flesh through
The fabric. They reveal what is mottled,

On the skin and soul and in mind.
On the Lame Minister’s broadcast
Yesterday, a glitch in the zoom quite
Unstitched him, as he called for more
Questions after avoiding the same one
Three times. A muted Ian Watson tried

First before Robert Peston repeated,
But as Zoom’s active speaker faltered,
We saw Peston’s irritation at the flouting
Of truth through bleared lines. And as
Has been reported today, everybody
Will notice. As Nicola Sturgeon condemns

Him for betraying the rules he has set.
The would-be Churchill downhills
At a staggering rate with each sentence,
But the fear is we’ll forget this as other
Ensuing events mask his mess. This man
Lied to the Queen and chased popularity’s

Message. Changing his own as he wanted
And bending so called democracy which soon
Snapped. We’ve heard of domestic disputes
After the adulteries he was famed for.
The new Covid baby. Lapdancing bribes,
Lockdown’s trap. But the ongoing mystery

Still remains: How he has been allowed
To get away with each outrage, and engage
A man whose desire is to see us all burn
For a joke? He was elected, you’ll say.
Well, consult Al Gore on that process;
And while the voting here had no rigging

The craft had already sunk on dry moats. 
His moral driftwood floated up and these
Were the scraps some clung onto, thereby
Securing a whirlpool that will take a full
River of years to revoke. When Ian Watson
Returned to the screen after the dumb

And bumbling answer was given,
Once again he was muted, by either
His own hand or the State? He can’t be
That bad at his job, as working for the BBC
Is all broadcast, so if there was a remote
Hand that stopped him, whose was the slur

That piss takes? I think of that scruffy
Scum with his file, swatting away those
Reporters. What was written within?
Not a poem. But a plan of possible extinction
Perhaps. Conceived as he strode and posed
On the battlements of Barnard Castle;

King Dom, over England, with his bland
Baron Boris stooping below.

Lords of crap.




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.




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