PALM SUNDAY

PALM SUNDAY

I think of all of the sex workers at home,

Performing their phantom moves for the camera,

And then the furtive men, chaste and housebound

Still seeking their smile through the dark. In the flickering

Light of a fleshed full sun there is congress, but with

No proof of pleasure other than where a stain

Leaves its mark. My own desires rely

On the imagination now, or projection; a small

But boxed image on a laptop screen or a phone.

Or perhaps some old photograph, held by the

Galleried eye or soul’s fleapit, where the dancing

Ants time looks down on, as Orson Welles did,

Spirit bone. What is it I’m admitting? You know.

As after all, we all do it. If not directly, then in memory,

I’m quite sure. As that’s where those craved treasures

Were first struck from the surrounding earth

And revalued; the tastes and thrills the heart savours,

As the tongue and tear cry for more.

But it isn’t just sex, I speak of; despite it being

That former English staple of Sunday.

After the roast beef has descended and Dad

And the kids wash the car. I’m talking about

The whole thing of course, as the past provokes

Masturbation, if not by the hand, then thought

Pulling at a fast-enough rate to stoke scars.

That need we now have to get back to the life

Covid swallowed. You dare not spit through

Contagion, as we still cannot trace the seed’s reach.

To commit this act is to cry; it is the torn and tired

Tears of the body. Masturbation is yearning

For who and what you know has been breached.

It is the separation of flesh, as well as spirit.

It is sweet nostalgia that in being gripped,

Can still teach: that what you once loved

Has been lost, but it can come again,

If you’re careful. That flame that spun

And sparked your great fire has, in being

Snuffed left the smell, that lingers now

On the air, seminal, influential;

That last hidden river still bubbling beneath:

Love’s deep well. This splutters up now today,

Or on any day you remember,

Or try to revive through your actions,

Both the beauty that bred you and the magics

Once made from cast spells. We yearn for what was,

Just as those bachelors melt for those women.

We seek that skin flicker that plays in the former film

Of our lives, and we cry. Each soul weeps,

As our bodies seep, and feel blindly, touching

Our prone, private places to retrieve the public

Ports of affection. Each dream is projected now

And protects us. And this is the way love survives.

And so, on Sunday, we rest. As God’s biography

Tell us. And yet, in corrupting his image,

We confuse the divine with the base. As the ecstasy

Of release has been withheld for the moment,

On account of the ruin and the terrors with which

We’re now faced. And yet our one hand prayers

Hold the key. We just don’t know where it is:

That’s the problem. And so we hunt for it

Though each closed estate and stopped land.

Convinced hope will come, and then come again.

We’re all actors. In a pornography of the spirit,

The would(spelt with a u and l) can’t quite

Harden and thus we do not understand

Why this social impotence struck and why

The political Viagra stopped working. Stranded

And stuck, paled performers can never quite

Make a clear stand. Or know what they are,

Why they’re there, and even how to assert

Their position. But this is what we must do,

As love’s honoured, and the future, too.

That’s my plan. For there will be new thrills

To come and hope in hand. Just grasp for them.

As someone who works (or worked) in the theatre,

Believe me when I tell you that there are so many

Actors who, stood, or stranded, do their level

Best to seek Heaven. And yet love’s Paradise

Taunts them. For they have lost true desire

And dumbed, damned and distracted, do not know

What the hell to do with their hands. Love’s legacy

Spirals on even in a time without contact. For those

Lonely men, it’s not women for whom they actively

Strive, its themselves. As the mist clears, the mask

Is finally lifted, the gain and excitement to capture

Is a fusing of forms that soothes health.

When the body’s fulfilled and the mind achieves

Satisfaction. This is the romance within image

That starts to represent something else.

An act of creation that moves across a matter

Of inches, but from which miles and ages

Will soon ensure fear’s dispelled.

Active your controls,

And signal all your impulses.

The future is coming.

Power. Prepare.

Master Hell.

David Erdos May 17th 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.