THE DOG, IT WAS, THAT LIED

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 avoiding the trap and tarring of fate’s slick

Slipped soap. While others die, this braised rump

Steak performs press-ups. It’s as if some thoroughly

Bastardised piece of brisket has suddenly bitten back

From the plate. The insensitivity stuns, along with

The lack of proportion, for as the infirm and elderly

Wither, the porcine and imperfect squits over the sick

To spread hate. When will we learn that what we used

To earn paid this bastard? How much more can we

Swallow of the offal and tripe he gives us? We already

Know what he is and the other spectres at the feast

We are barred from, but like the sheep in the far

Field, this time the dog doesn’t guide, the dog

Lusts. Instead, he lines us up, one part fox,

The next, rat, as well as pig and snake, ox and

Lizard, cowardly fucking Lion and let us not forget:

Boar, who truly believes we will cheer the will

He asserts to rule over not only the roost,

But the roster, the surrounding trees, the fouled

Core. We are in their orchard now, bruised,

But nevertheless ripe for plucking, for just as

We rushed back into sunlight, so they sought shadow

With which to define the new truth. Which is to press

Us all hard and continue this squeeze through

The summer, hoping that we forget the past danger,

And allow for the pulping that mixes fruit with fear

To make juice. The Sunday Mail pictured it.

‘I’m as fit as a Butcher’s dog,’ Johnson told us.

And what are we? Flock they fattened.

The sacrificial sheep, beef and lambchop.

The spent sausage. The blood in the Butcher’s

That the dog licks up. Save your sluice.

David Erdos June 28th 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.