LEICESTER CITY 0, LONDON .. what?

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 Zone 1 and the corrupted caves around

London, the Pubs throb to open, filling the throats

Of the dry. Who have cried out for release and sought

Oblivion through hand drowning, chugging the sea back

Inside them to douse doubt and sink sweetly without

Ever truly wondering why. All we want is return.

Too many home goals proved distasteful. And now,

With one penalised city, those at the top of the league

Can run free. We can set a proper score for ourselves

While other teams trail now behind us, and our dark,

Distant captains in exchanging their shirts bare the number

Of that Crowley defined famous beast. So, where will be

Next? Liverpool? Because, as they probe, they will need

A supposedly working-class city. There to oil the wheels

And mechanics of the Economy’s fat machine, without

Choice. Or Manchester, perhaps. Or, Cardiff, or, Glasgow.

Not that Nicola Sturgeon’s tartan mask would permit them:

Would that we had her pluck and firm voice. They couldn’t,

I don’t believe try it here, unless they fled instead to their

Bunker, or, perhaps Mogg’s Cayman island, or Boris’

Prized Mustique. Where many mysteries lurk, mostly

Around Princess Margaret and John Bindon’s penis,

Big enough so they tell us to run any flag up to its peak.

Such a flag pole stands now above the kind of camp

Leicester fashions, speaking to me of a future

In which those with a cold set new style. That will see

The old without clothes and hustled fast to the ashtray,

While the Aryan blonde performs press-ups

And the truly dividing line runs for miles. It simply

Doesn’t add up. Nor does it balance. Across supposedly

Level earth, all’s tectonic and the land and lie separate.

Held by our homes, the cage becomes just more spacious.

But it is still a cage. Kick against it. This is how pride

Compensates. For there will be many who push

And press and play now against us. Hope and hate

Now play football. A game of course we can’t witness.

So as the days begin closing, claim untested air,

Feel its weight. For what hangs heavy now in our mouths

Is none of the old, lost excitements, but the chance

To breathe again beyond borders; the chance to live

And learn a new taste.

David Erdos June 30th 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.