THE WRONG SONG
THE WRONG SONG
I was never on twitter before, but now each cyber bird
Spikes through singing. The song is frantic now
At the dramas that confirm and condemn daily fears,
Whether they be those of the held; the victimised
And brow beaten, or those who can't understand
How the ingrates who squeeze each day's script
Still write here. As I read through the screen,
The coronic moron Priti Patel speaks false volumes.
She doesn't even deserve simple rhyming,
What with the vapidity of her spiel. Apologising
Once more for the horrors of the Windrush Scandal,
It takes a TV film to remind her that real human lives
Lost appeal. As Stephen S Thompson's film sparks
Fresh pain after Patrick Robinson's fine performance
The story of Anthony Bryan provides another British
Counterpart for George Floyd. Killed while alive,
And forced onto a path unimagined, Patel careens
Across the bandwagon, suddenly aware of the colours
That she has done her part to destroy. Just three days
Before she sneered hard at the civil rights protest.
But now black lives matter, she tries, like a child,
To implore. Just the sight of her name sends me into
A spiral. As do the others with whom she is bound:
BJ. DC. JM. Tweet. Delete them. Would we could cut
Them as they bastardise the profound. But we won't.
Or we can't. Their hold is too strong on the keyboard.
Even if theirs is an untuned piano it still drowns out
Riot's squall. Simply because it can play, especially
While no-one can hear it. And continue to compose
Devilled music that seeks to overture darkened calls.
It is a time in which birds having sung their songs
Die like fire. Their wings are ripped, wrenched and
Twisted until the sad form falls, crushed by fate.
And so, we greet a world on the warp, fuelled by its
Mazel tov cocktails, in which Trump supporters,
See explosive Jews as fresh bait. The phrase came
Out as two words on a CNN image, replacing
Molotov seemed decisive, or did the software mistype?
The scent of prejudice rises fast from the cake of hate
Some are baking, as cookery shows form religions,
And the crumbs left for songbirds casts a poisonous
Theme across flight. Twitter, while brisk is such a mix
Of strange music. With each progressive voice
fusing with that of the inane, its wronged song
Or perhaps, the old form of 'music concrete',
As once prized by Frank Zappa; a montage
Of scraped and (currently) tapped atmospherics
That seek to tame beast and rouse throng.
I hear it as PP performs her out of tune screech
And Trump, leaks and prattles; unable to preside,
He provides the odour and ordure of a corrupted
Bowel, gassing us. Minneapolis cries out through
Its name for the end of its active Police force.
It seeks revolution and its own people's state,
Based on trust. If something like that happened
There the world would truly have science fiction.
It’s far more likely he'll nuke them to make
A George Floyd dome or hot zone. For this
Is the way the world is: communication caught
Within frenzy. Sharp shards of song, splinters
Sent to pierce and scratch those alone.
And never bring ease. Those times to relax
Seem so distant. Now every new ping speaks
Of chaos, and each orchestra's tuning,
Sets ears to rattle with truth 'arpeggiated'
And percussion's demand made from bone.
We have continued to hear the wrong song
Throughout this new Coronica genre.
It is an electronica whose home system
Has blistered each hand and ear and each eye.
There was even talk of a Knighthood today
For Dominic F King Cummings. Christ, even
Don Giovanni would bridle, when those
Exposed by transgressions on the scale
He strode receive prize. The nest has been
Fouled. The bird has flown, Lennon sang.
But we also need old John Barry: 'Born Free.'
I hear it. And in what I state I ask will we die?
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.
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David Erdos
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© David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.
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