Connecting Through Corona

LEICESTER CITY 0, LONDON .. what? A localised lockdown feels like camps, or the start of camps If I’m honest. As they strive to summon a dome over Leicester, Joe Orton’s ghost boils through earth. That infamous Son of this recently stricken city would have sneered and Laughed darkly at the fate of his old place of birth. But watching it for us, on the news, chills such heat, Making vapour. And I can smell the steam of souls rising And the taint of fear pushed through gas. It feels like an Experiment made in some old horror feature. Or, no doubt A Stephen King novel, with the sourced supernatural Successfully primed for attack. Not that Covid came From Space, or from the heat of Hell, or warped Heavens. Even if the spell it has conjured feels necromantic at times. As we have no solution, no seal, so play with the streets Between people; using somewhere regional for strange Practise that will do what it can to close minds. Meanwhile in Zo

IF I DID I wonder what they would say if I did; Those who have formed low opinions, Or, those who have misunderstood past Intentions because it suits their own, If I end? I won’t have been the first one To ask, as everyone reasserts their position, Or, questions too, their own value When cast in the absence of a familiar Touch, or prized friend. I still have many, Thank God, even if placed across distance. Including two good as brothers, and the talent I’d hope to make more. And I have had sisters, Too, and would again, if presented. But in The loneliness sent to stain us, such families Shadow, or shuffle, and wait to propose Themselves, beyond doors, which have yet To fully open in fear, if not through occasion. For while a false form has been granted, The still troubling air sketches cloud, which Either colours or clears the hues we knew That defined us. An amorphousness Morphing as fast as it subverts the line That dr

THE DOG, IT WAS, THAT LIED Unfit for any lead, or to lead, this Butcher’s dog Makes us sausage, mashed in his mincer, Or, packaged and primed like lame chops. While we rush back to the shops to prop up The Economy as it topples, that near dissipation Didn’t prevent this dog’s dinner, or furlough The profits in the Cayman bank accounts Of Rees-Mogg. They seem to be peeling us like soft Fruit, while stifling the screams with face covers, And yet while we shout through the shadow And twitter and leak, the bills pass. Sticks and stones Can’t be thrown for fear of contagion and words Become witness to the continuing crimes Bore-is Masks. I had thought days away would have Granted perspective, but sadly the same iris closes Just like a Brighton Beach telescope. You see The same blinkered view for the few seconds saved By your coinage, which is dirtying fast in your pocket As you struggle to stay clean and healthy, while Also avoid

THE OUTRO The sun spirals through The spell of cloud sent To smear us. In the blur And the barter the fine And fate bankrupts sin. Thus, the descent is described As the ground’s whirlpool opens. On the tears of paving stone, The heart’s rainfall. And as The sound of shadows slide: Requiem.  David Erdos June 21 st 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 photog

DARKNESS AS DARE Where are we with this? I write as the world slides And settles. The tap and trace system’s transparency Is revealed while attempting to parent us all From the brink. As those at the end of the phone Disconnect, unemployed despite purpose, While the cunning Chameleon Covid slips from swamp To day circus, Crocodiling safe moments to threaten Each breath, dream and drink. Where are we? Still here. Amateurishly trying to define the new normal. And yet, even the phrase sounds synthetic, as it reduces What we had before to cast clothes. Bell bottom Flares that once displayed our abandon, crop-tops, Or, shirts with a band on; those uniforms of belonging That made us as much the product as anything else That we owned. But now, the product has changed. And the product is fate, to be packaged. But which Box, or wrapping can effectively contain each strange Day? Not to mention the strained, who are doing All they can to l