HOW MANY DAYS

HOW MANY DAYS

There has been a rip in the real. We should make no mistake:

Wounds run deeper. As the profound words of a dead man

Have filled every throat, all speech fails. For what can one say

When all have seen the full horror of someone’s freedom

Extinguished. We have witnessed the end of one lifetime

And seen the spear and the stricture on which simple matters

Like hope are impaled. For we are in the abattoir now,

From which no answer forms. It is just questions and entrance.

There is no Court of appeal in a country where an ignorant

Despot can’t hear, only squeal. There a mad pig pretends

And squats across law as here an equally damned fool subverts it.

As the pervert dumps there, our conversion and compliance

Is something forced and strained to test fear. House prices

Fall as England sinks in a heatwave. The sun bakes and accuses

While the guilty marks stare it out. There has been a separation

In sense alongside all buildings. The pavements crumble like biscuit

As the land is left crushed by doubt. Meanwhile eager mouths

Feed on the blood in the gutter. And bastards shame their

Own mothers with some of the bile and bilge they express.

Twitter virtually Messian’s as its birdsong becomes clatter,

And the sacred composer who scored it, has his music

Drowned out by distress - and the specific gossip of birds,

Bitter about us every morning. For what we hear as beauty,

Is in fact their outrage. An avian view of the Covidians

Who astound them. And so, as they supposedly sing,

They crap at us, with slurs sent straight to us from between

The golden bars of God’s cage. For I believe that God

Has made its own cage and is presently locked within it.

So ashamed of our actions, the act of Creation itself

Has him tried. This is the reason why no-one’s come

From across the stars that we know of. God hid us away,

Always fearful of the fact that we would never ourselves

Recognise, our potential and prime. Man is just too damned

And needy. Man(un)kind is exhausting. It does not even know

When to die. And yet through the Corona, thoughts form.

Black Squares burst like star flowers. They in their density mirror

The endless dimensions to the current American crime.

Artists and all reframe night to expose what has happened,

But this is not new to Black people. They have lived

With this all their lives. The white fears the black

And so, it strikes at it. It always has - but just as light

Has speed, so has darkness as the negative starts to rise.

So, do we run with it now and overturn their spiked

Ploughing? And just what would we make from the ruins

Without that alien twist to our minds? Would we make

The self-same mistakes or is there another race towards

Rising? As already the fascists grease up the flagpole

Ready to hoist the hell sign. Yes, these are transitory words,

But that is because we do not know what is coming.

Just look at the towers, they topple. How many days

Left of burning? I look to the sky. The sky lies.

If there were a time for the Christ, as the Jews believe,

Then it’s with us. I think of my friend, who’s a Vicar.

I admire you, Richard, for as you work for God’s

Counsel, there are so many broken binds you must tie.

So how many days until I see my father and mother? 

And how many days make a future that will move beyond

Compromise? I shudder now, I admit. For as I think

Of George Floyd, I hear jackboots. We have another Saint,

A new Martyr. And yet, if the races truly fuse we might rise.

For the Devil’s abroad and also over here,

Near Westminster. We need new dreams.

Brighter fires. Another world for the taking.

I open my mind and imagine.

And then I just

Close my eyes.

David Erdos June 3rd 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.