WHAT COVID CAUGHT

WHAT COVID CAUGHT

What did Covid catch? Just the light,

As it was spotlit to glare at us, warping

The way and the wisdom once used to

Describe what was known. It interrupted

The real, and the glands which soon fell

Unguarded, as the unguided heart

Heightened its urgent call to hope flown.

It virused each vein. Home and hospital 

Claiming patience. Covid disinterred Doctors,

Made phantoms of food, restrained rules. 

Bracing us for the brink into which we're still

Falling; Covid the Destroyer, if not of worlds

And health, then of High Streets, along with 

The future and physical form within schools.

For now our children run wild, and Ballard's

Balm cannot calm us. I started with Ballard

And so, with Jim I will end. He saw all this

Years ago, and his balm became cooled

Acceptance. In not heeding him have we

Made oppression and the scorching within

Our fat friend? Brought to boil, all soup spun,

We're numbed as our souls start to vapour;

Hates hot press has soon squeezed us,

As we emerge reduced or even miniaturised

From our homes. Just like animals in the light,

We blink and blame each breeze burning,

As the summer air sees us simmer

And the heart, split and heavy finally 

Transmogrifies into stone. What did Covid

Catch? Us. Along with the Corons who rule us;

The furious Coronica we have fashioned

In affront and outrage clothes the fear, 

Of the tender flesh placed just like a crab

Cast to water, knowing that the biting bowl

Boiling over is the maddened foam of death's

Tears. We have been forked for that bowl

And fucked for the plate waiting for us.

As a prawn is peeled, our exposure is seen

Through whitened flesh, or black grain. 

For a meal has been made of the human meat

Fate's throat formed for; within the modern age's

Saliva both acid and blood taste the same.

Cannibalism has come as the cafes

And restaurants all go hungry. With the menu

Mixed, marination of each ingredient worked

For taste. Starting in March the seasoning 

Source sought all flavours, as broiled bone

Duly softened and still falling flesh smoothed

To paste. Each brick wall became toast 

That the plump at pot began spreading. 

Johnson as butter - right down to his hair -

Melted first. All he wants is to feed from the fame

That first found him and make us all breakfast

While his powered lust seeks desert. Mogg 

Is just beans, counted from the tin, hiding others,

Gove the sauce slick between them, Priti Patel,

Bacon rind. But Dominic is the egg claiming 

His bald domination. A stark staring yellow

That not even albumen can confine. Instead,

He drips from the plate, a viscous fall of life

Wasted. On seeing us slip in the spillage, 

He is in turn satisfied. He always doubted 

Our worth, not that fate for him is a flavour:

Is he really what a Mother made? No cut

Chicken, with a well farmed c- or a- would

Lay him. And yet his Mary did, as they attempt 

To make better breakfasts, in which future 

Creatures will feast on the second slavery

He begins. Remnants of the first stained

The steam as the 2020 Spring moved to

Simmer, just like the shards of shell

In a saucepan as fire forces egg death.

There the yoke rises like sun, or blooms

Within, a trapped secret. Crying across its 

Existence or hardening through boiled breath.

A frozen emblem, in fact, despite the warm

Crumbling as its swallowed, just as we

Dissipated, immune systems scrambled

As hope and heart found the fry. Of course,

It isn't just food, though food is the refrain

And echoed chorus within cultures; the lack of it

Blocks expression, across the starving plains

As words die. And with them, the mouths

And spirited hands that would form them;

The African and the world's starving stories 

Were sequelled within the panicked west's sell

And buy. That was the first division that struck,

The first wall fell, and it crushed us. Selfishness

Begat separation. Separation begat Quarantine.

And then Quarantine became cure. A convenient

Port of seclusion. In which forced exclusion 

Allowed people to forego former dreams. 

Now we are snails, prised from our shells,

Masked and mired. Across wound and wire

The charges to come would shock stone.

At which we may yet recoil, as we scurry 

Back to our burrows, stunned, slimed 

And silenced as along the mucus field spores

Were sown. But by who? Which God's hand

Came to strike our soft structure? Who came

To peel or repel us away from the stifled water

Within? Who brought us to the boil and stoked

The steam's surface? Which vows to vapour

And the dissolution of flesh worsened sin?

WHAT KILLED US? Did we die? And is this 

The dream that we're waving? Or, is this, 

In fact, just the journey that the sated soul

Undertakes, as it seeks the clean white plate

Of either the cosmos or heaven, salted by 

Unrepentant stars, death still savours the oil

Of the dark and love's taste. All my long lost

Dead have escaped but Hell for us is now

Waitered by Angels. In fact, here in Hell,

All is service as the ovens roar all the time.

But unlike the food fire serves, here it is us 

Who are tasted. The tongues of flame, each

A demon’s are licking us clean as blood binds. 

For blood thickens and seasons the deal

That someone has made near a cauldron,

In either a kitchen or office, to shape the 666

Of the Devil while we confront or fall foul of

Emergency's 999. In a possibly Shakespearean

Shade on a heath an inelegant play's being written.

Sadly by those whose own theatre ends and begins

With their face. Which they slather over in smoke

Summoning it up through stained magic,

Pate and wigs branded as evil succeeds 

Second place. What did Covid catch? Them. 

The THEY of whom I have written. Those carved

Kings of chaos and the Queens of long rule,

Eat the lot. We have been cooked. Throughout

The Summer ahead, we will simmer. With children

As croutons the soup has been stirred in fate's pot. 

A Century ends twenty years after starting. 

It is almost Biblical. For after these hundred poems

They will serve a new selection of years free from

Care. And what will they taste like? Well, you. 

And you as well. Your vagina. Your nose. Your penis.

The spice in your soul. Your crisp hair. You have been

Sacrificed. But then you did steal the sugar. 

Well, now, time reclaims it. And the earth as well.

Man's not spared. Corona came hard and crested

The wind. We fell, bloated. Covid 19 turned to 20.

But when your number's up who can dare?

And so, now, the dead look to us as the animals

Speak their language. How then, can we learn

The lesson? The answer is simple:

Write and be your poem. And so begins

The next volume. Importantly, I'll echo Wilde

And then, Hemingway, being Earnest.

Take your words to life's river.

Our life is unrhymed.

The rhyme's there.

David Erdos June 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.