IN THE BLACK HOUSE

IN THE BLACK HOUSE

He turned The White House lights off

In order to avoid noisy neighbours, bunkering

Down a la Hitler, as if he too were trying

To persuade himself from his end, the so called

Free world’s Billionaire President, sling avoiding

The Bailiffs, who sought morality as their surfeit

And as a kind of forfeit on truth he won’t lend.

He certainly could not spare sense if it screwed

Him in the ass, like a porn star, as this Stormy

Donald would vapour like rain in a drought.

If he ever held a clear thought he wouldn’t know

How to pronounce, or to spell it: you Caligarish,

With your cabinet dark, reason’s out.

In fact, its fucking well leased to the wind

In the hope that someone with sense

May hold to it. The insanity of your actions

And the redneck rash that you scratch

Makes me ashamed to be white, not that

You are, being orange; a plastic sun

Of your making that no gravitational pull

Would dare catch. And yet still, you remain!

A proper enemy of the people, exposed

And blown, hiding from them, deep down

In the dirt and bowels of your State.

For an hour, at least, but it could have been

Less than a minute. We would have still sourced

The lesson of so-called democracy in defeat.

Democracy has been exiled for years, certainly

As we understand it. A forgotten concept,

Or relic, just as in Logan’s Run’s classic twist.

When Peter Ustinov’s ancient man meets

Jenny Agutter and Michael York in their

Running. They touch his face, disbelieving

That such a tender form still exists. There is

Nothing now quite like that. We’ve lost

The sensibility for it. Now it’s sensation,

Or sensation and shock that surrounds.

Whether on screen or in the Coronic Age

They’re extending, with morons like you

At the forefront, beauty itself’s gone to ground.

I look at your wife when you’re on. And her

Lovely face, dead but living. I wonder always

If she’s captive, or did she let you grab hold

Of her in that dark? As you wronged Civil Rights

In the President’s nuclear Bunker, seeing your

Own people as weapons, was Melania strapped

Beside you, or baring her own Devil’s mark?

What sort of world has been made

And what sort of life are you living?

It can’t just be dementia, or like Reagan before,

Will it show? When you turned off those lights

You cut modern civilisation completely.

What is in your mind? Is it empty? The lights

Are off but you’re home still. And now your

Accusers have no doubt at all where to go.

They barricade your preened lawn while you

Hide within. Fucken’ pussy! Just like the ones

You once grabbed for as you thought about

Dating your daughter and paid for Stormy D’s

Suck and blow. And now they have you on

Epstein’s Affidavit. Pig. So unkosher, even

The prawn like shell of impeachment was made

Dirty for God, priced and peeled. When will

The son, or grandson of whoever framed

Lee Harvey Oswald, clean his gun to run at you

As you shut down freedom’s field? You have

Stained the white walls and forever marred

The grand emblem. You have sounded the word

Within country and shown us what’s left

When hope’s killed. Ugliness in plain sight

And across all known levels. Spiritual, spatial,

Mental. For each word you misuse is a weapon

That will in time keep us stilled. Not even the Bible

Had you. But now we have our blonde photocopy.

As you tear the pages from your idiots tome, we read

Blight. For behind our own prick is the balding

Shadow hand that has gripped him. Cumming again,

You’ll jerk and wank with them, as you hunker

And hate, lost to light.

David Erdos, June 2nd 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.