ON SINDAY

ON SINDAY

On another supposed day of peace, after rain

What we have been left with is pieces. Even if

The rain’s always like that, staining the ground

With odd spray, so we have the evaporating piss

Of the thug close to the Keith Palmer memorial

Statue, and the other pricks near confirming

That Churchill was like Colston as the bowels

Through their mouths have their say. Glandular

Reactions, knee jerks and Sieg Heils to follow,

As those who run rampage rise to confirm

Racial dread. Be it black, white or grey,

As Brutalists attack the attackers. Protecting

Winston, so they tell us, the Cenotaph, too,

And the dead. While subverting through their

Stomp the troubled drum struck within broken

Cities that once sounded the rhythm by which

Everyone fell in sync. Or by which they learnt

To live side by side, but when the cell is sprung

Inmates clamour. This unearned freedom

Has brought everything fast to the brink.

Johnson woos Africa saying that we will now

Stand beside them, truly believing such actions

Will somehow absolve the divide that has

Rendered the earth from Minneapolis down

To Bristol, while forgetting his own former

Writings on the need for colonial rule, as sense

Dies or, if it survives, it screams out at the idiocy

Advocated. And it is clear that we see it and have

Started to act, but the world is not as it was

And four months is a long time in Prison.

Sir John Bell talks of vaccines and of speeding up

Plans still unfurled. Empty promises wrapped

In unseeded hope grant no favour, when the real

Is on the ropes, hope is hanging and there are

Patches on pavement stones and scarred roads

That will lead us back on ourselves as we simply

Confirm their oppression. As the debt accrues,

Weigh on us, no-one will fully understand

What is owed. Elsewhere, other fragments are left,

As apparently there are now mask trees in Wiltshire;

A neighbourly and philanthropic act of provision,

But still somehow invoking the masochist’s need

For the whip. It shows how we must all fall

In line after the page itself has been crumpled.

The mask is a mirror that marks the active end

Of the smile, kiss, or lip. Consider the mouths

That crowd now around us. Those shouting out

Near Trafalgar, or, those Big Brothering by Big Ben. .

The Book of Common Prayer dignified for all

Of those who were common the grace of God,

But now demons – if you believe in that sort of

Thing – seek our end. For screeds of hate are

Prayers, too, and in being spent become sinning

Showing how this Sunday reflection through

A river of piss disturbs not only old stone

But the air we breathe or run shy from.

As the Lockdown ends we’ll find prisons

Where convicts clash on each street.

That micturiton stains all, as spite and spill

Greet the rainfall, and the sunshine sees glisten

The still lingering stains of defeat. And so

We rage, like kept bulls, while the pinball

Crashes bumpers, and the wheel of fate is spun

Blindly, and we blink and submerge behind

Cloth. Touching it all the while, and soiling

Ourselves and each other. The dark light is still

Shining and the shadow cast, mars the moth.

If we were ever Angels before, or held a sweet

Dream about them, beware: wings are burning.

For if the fouled mark us, we may yet be forsaken.

In all of creation, our allow and our leasing may

Make us the thing God forgot.

David Erdos June 14th 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.