THINK FLOYD

THINK FLOYD

George Floyd’s final words

Read like one of the last Beckett poems;

His repeated please as they crushed him,

A broken bubble of air in his throat.

As Derek Chauvin stamped the life

From this man you could hear the sudden

Return of the jackboot, but on American soil;

That rebranding came with a police uniform

And blood moat. For this is the castle

They keep, whose gates were stormed

Right through to the weekend.

As opposition spread like wildfire

And like a virus too on death’s street.

Across the US and the world, and Lockdown

Leased, here in London, as the fear of what

Happens or of what can happen soon

Fuels stilled feet. They will kill us all

In the end, if we rise against such dark action.

The stark opposition in cities will bring

The boot polish out in the Camps.

President Trump, the dumbed scum

Will have his Commandant togs sent from

Macy’s, as he preens and prattles, while the kerb

Where Floyd died remains damp. And so,

A new martyr is made, when we would wish

For none, as wounds deepen. The children

Bored at home of their parents are about

To be released from the cage, as the anti-social

Distance is seen as suddenly secondary

And the primary children and the adults

Abroad unleash rage.

When so called

Elected leaders decry the reactions

And thoughts of their people, History repeats

Swiftly, on a continual loop, with new clothes,

Whose colours soon blur, as blood is churned

In the mixer and the crimes perpetrated

Belong to the fat pink hand we all loathe.

Hold someone down for too long

And the life rivers from them. That return

To the water from which we all came, is begun.

Here, it is a river of blood and a sea of tears

For a victim who died because a twenty dollar

Bill was suspected as he tried to pay for his lunch.

And so, the white once again stained the black

With the hate they always say has been

Vanquished. After Eric Garner, another, 

And back to Rodney King. That’s the crunch.

For now, empires of hate have built up

Under this brand-new oppression

And the rage of those rivers in bursting

The banks fills all cups. Prejudice of this

Kind is familiar of course and an acid.

Black people have always endured it, 

As of course have the Jews. And the Palestinians,

At their hands, and the Lebanese, and the Irish;

Every place fills with poison, not all of which

Stains the news. But we would have thought,

We’d have hoped that at this startling time

Of division, a normal man in a Deli, would not

Become beaten steak. Across the world,

Anger fries, as we prepare to sift through

Smoke. We’re all burning. Read Trump’s

Reaction and watch as the world starts

To break. Will it break for the best?

With the dead bark split, fruit is growing.

But sadly here, it is Strange Fruit, as in

The song by Nina Simone; Hate’s numbed

Taste.

 Apparently, Chauvin’s

On Suicide watch. Does this mean the shame

Claims him, or is that just the process

With which they seek to convince us now

Of said guilt?

Perhaps we should

Hang him from a tree and see the ‘bitter crop’

Spread around him. The man with the mask

And umbrella was the first to shatter glass.

What’s been built? Clearly, a second structure

Of lies, there to incite and smudge focus

After the global snuff movie was made

To incur our outrage. Some believe this

Chamberlain was a cop. Certainly, his

Entire stance was a riot. And there is a clear

Strain of thinking that sees this as a second

Biblical stage, in which the feared slaves

Are smashed down as the white world

Feels threatened; a dark preparation

Through which the signal glare fans

The flame that witnesses the world

As it burns. Trump can only melt.

He’s warped plastic. Cummings is sulphur.

But above and beyond them, as our statutes

Shake, what’s been learnt? We are being

Pushed back to work, charting our lives’

Remaining chance on the tube map.

As they actively prepare for a new strain

Once others die, serving them.

Get the economy fed, and new graves, too.

There’s no question.

Remember,

That Chauvin was filmed for nine minutes

As he brought a black man to his end.

Now black and white clash for the right

To riot. Meanwhile, another face finds

Its dinner and the Angel of death

Makes new friends. The lies rise from lies

That surround now to slice us. Windows

Weep just like widows. In our hands now,

Are mirrors reflecting back fate’s pretence.

David Erdos June 1st 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.