THE HUMAN SCREEN

THE HUMAN SCREEN

Along with the rationed return of some work,

Apparently, we can now meet one person outside,

Just as long as we both keep our distance.

This makes each public space its own laptop,

Primed for rendezvous, assignations in which

Once privileged information will have to be

Shouted out, or, declaimed. There is no specific

Rota for this, so naturally, we will be crammed

At each corner. Alleys will run thick with humans,

Evicting both rats and shadows in this perplexing

New Covid game. What the Police had controlled

Will soon be relinquished. But if another couple

Stand close by, must we withdraw, like spies,

Back to dark? As if this hadn’t played enough

With our lives: now we must enact past

Pretences, moving suspiciously through the poses

That once used to define what we are. Or were.

Or might be. Once we understand this new

Shadow. Which seems to fade, when considered;

Water through a net that needs stitching,

Before it slips slyly from the altar formed

By cupped hands. One more piece of crap

From the river of shit running from THEM,

As another pale attempt at provision

In the linguistic sense, wastes words, will

And meanings that I certainly don’t understand.

So, how will it work? Perhaps THEY

Could explain it all again to me. Or, will we each

Receive quadrants in which we could land

Each phantom plane with our hands? 

As movements carve air, to make a new kind

Of sign language; mimed touch, soft blown kisses

That are meant to replace each old care.

I am stultified, startled, stunned by this

Photocopy of friendship, in which

The machines have been sanctioned

And then imagined and placed between trees.

Or if not in parks, before shops, which will

In turn render them akin to a photographer’s

Backdrop, or background. And yet, such posed

Emulations of spirit reshaped, just deceive.

It makes no sense. It’s a step. But a step

Towards fabrication. As the experimented rats

And automatons ape the humans, A1 is translated

And transmogrifies into a form of AI.

But the would-be robots can’t replace what has

Already ceased to be human, as woman and man

Become artificial, and anti-fictional too, as facts lie.

So where is the hope? What’s the cure?

A vaccine will in time cancel Covid. And yet,

It isn’t the strain, it’s the symptoms, as well as

The scars that remain. We will have to learn anew,

As cats do, to see through the dark sent to claim us,

And become aware at each moment about how

Something like this comes again.

A chemical weapon is one that either man

Puts together, slick as a gun and aimed at us,

In a kind of suicide pact to curse breath.

Or it is one that simply alchemises through earth;

A stain, or, slur from spent forces,

Sent once more as reminder from a passing age

That Handmaidens for the tightened control

Of Kinged Death. Hope builds beside pain.

Concomitant, they are comrades; as with bud

And stem, root and flower, man and mistake,

Cloud and rain. So, as you meet in the field

And perform a Tai Chi of false contact,

May that dance bring you closer to both

The fiction and fact of the game.

For we are being played with, I’m sure,

As well as tested. The Human Screen is now

Pulsing and a Log In program has been searched

And set by your name. How to Log Out, though?

You know. But for now, we can bypass that motion.

Driving out across distance and with our hopes

Dragged and packed. Stay Alert. Stay secure.

While being insecure. That’s the message.

But tend dreams, too. The night travels.

But then the days arrive.

Dreams can stain.

David Erdos May 13th 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.