THE SECOND FIRE

THE SECOND FIRE

And so, the protest rages on, as if it were

A self-feeding fire, and the secret signs

THEY are slipping and their slights of hand

Fudge the game. Amateur magicians, at best,

Or possibly worse, the instructions they had

Are also singed by the fervour with which

They seek to stoke a well-oiled burst to spark

Flame. As the Floydian horror show spreads

Even his murderers seem forgotten, as the greater

Crime grips us and so many new soundtracks

Play. For we have seen and heard such

Crescendos before as America’s civil war

Always wages; the currency of racial hate

Curled within it, sticks to an unfurled flag

Like gum spray; that vicious spit spat

When you chew and mash up the flavours

Into one salivaed mess that you swallow

While foregoing at once the sweet taste

Of the differences in the mix that made

What you wanted to try so appealing,

A country of colours that would always

Be savoured, instead of being thrown,

Or, cast into waste. But this is not how it’s been.

And so, the world sours. One drop in the ocean

Suddenly becomes oil slicked sea; waved distress.

For something crests on those waves; another

Threat to the planet, along with us, and the people

For whom everyone needs to confess.

Such as the Blonde and the Bald, and the useless

Home Secretary, who in taking down her dicks’ tation

Asks for everyone to stop their protest. It’s a global

Pandemic she cries, in words written and said

By a monkey. (As if we hadn’t noticed!) Meanwhile,

The organ grinder mashes the words she prefers

‘I’d ask that they didn’t..’ she says, painting the air

With kids’ crayons, while watercolours run

And blood’s pigment covers and crusts

Like a curse. Apparently, she may lose her job,

Too, as she failed to add to the lie around

Cummings, and they may March Mogg out

Through the conga he balefully tried to arrange.

The old hockey cockey, Jacob, while those you

Thought as friends deem you jokey, what with

Your Hitler haircut. Even your suit’s Nazi age.

So, these are the second fires that burn across

The lip and lines that are shouting. The idiots dance

While the worthy walk through the air they infect.

There are just too many tongues of flame testing us.

And we do not know which will now burn

The longest. The racial hate, or the social.

By which I mean the financial fire we’re feeling

And the unheeded desire of a dark conflagration,

Fuelled by political poison that would tar us all

With hell’s lust.

David Erdos June 7th 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.