ONE’S CANNIBAL

ONE’S CANNIBAL

Yesterday I wrote a line in both a poem and play

Which said that the food I have bores me. Today,

I wake hungry and literally don’t know what to eat.

It can’t be my words, or my hat as my hair threatens

To flow like head lava so what can I have to sustain me

And enable me to feel more complete?

Perhaps we will all become cannibals, feeding on parts

Of ourselves to continue: memories or reminders

Of the substance we had and held close. Today,

Things seem dark. And I can make no apology for it.

I am concerned. I see progress, but it is haphazardly

Scraped, I admit it, and spread as thinly now as cold toast.

I don’t even want to go out, though go out I must,

For provisions. And yet, a full fridge is illusion,

An oasis of sorts on fed land, revealing how everything

Looks the same, as if denoting some former range

Of decisions, in which a day’s definition was placed

Into the position of what only a knife and fork understand. 

Cannibalism, of course, in the metaphorical sense,

Is depression. That boring in, through the body,

In order to consult the menu, you’ve lost in the mind,

So as to find something sweet, some saving grace,

Some home gesture which, in the figurative sense,

Makes you better, filling the form and the furlough

Which is deepening now, across time. And yet,

The more one digs into the self, the further one is

Removed from one’s purpose. This much excavation

Would make even an Archaeologist ill. For now,

I need to emerge and batter down this held hunger

And find fresh tastes to fill me, which have no particular

Need for a kill. And yet everything is. Even an apple

Falls once rejected. And just as life now rejects me,

For the moment at least, I still graze. Fighting the hurt

In my head and the gas given fire I’m starting, as I battle

The smoke and confusion of this fast-returned Saturday.

For now, the days each stack up like one of these cursed

TV kitchens, in which the delivery of food is the drama,

As opposed to those former and forgotten plays of ideas.

Now, we see food everywhere, proof of a consumer’s

World that now haunts us; its sudden scarcity, due to panic

And perhaps economy numbs my tongue. As now,

The buying of food replaces all former pleasures;

And I check expenditure like a raven, raking scattered

Earth. Today, joy’s done. But I certainly hope it returns,

And will work towards that disclosure. In which the greater

Glory of breakfast sizzling away on the plate was once

A call to become, and a fuel towards that becoming,

While I know so many millions are starving, and that is

An inconsistency all should hate. But we are all born,

Powerless, on either side of the Equator. As for now,

This contagion, of both word and belief spurs us all,

To either hide away in our home, or in the dark,

Or light’s puzzle, and consider the means to continue

And the distance or height of our fall. I am hungry.

I’ll eat. And try to think of former tastes as I do so.

The Saturday fish and chips with my parents, when

Everything on earth still felt right. Or the snacks shared

With her, and the quality of her cooking. And the love

Made around it and within it too; those delights.

I will devour the past. That is the cannibalism I refer to.

The simple taste of the future,

That I saw once:

Food’s foresight.

David Erdos May 16th 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.