TRANS-SOCIAL

TRANS-SOCIAL

We are now, I feel, between the hard place

And the rock that Cummings has crawled right

Back under, caught in the shadow and mire

Under which slugs accrue, when you leave

Damp garden bags out in the rain, or when

The air holds rain at bay, flowers tire,

And their retreat is a signal for the worms

To turn; nothing’s true. Apart from the continuing

Trouble to come, in the United States and all

Countries. As one man’s death fuels a choir

That has become the world’s Requiem,

And we are caught between breaths, abandoning

One, checking others, foregoing safety in order

To finally pierce the pretence and heal friends.

The fascist coup’s on the rise. And it’s watching us

At each corner. But as it’s spying, protestors

Once again claim the streets. Recognising at last

The horror within hollow churches, made not

This time from religions but from the Downing

Street Pulpit and the puff haired puppet, who seeks

Only power, and his wretched string puller,

Wrenching and waiting to cart us all off by the feet.

This is as it was, a place between progress. It reminds

Me of the mismatch between the former kindles

And books read on trains. That soon

Transmogrified too, and become the numbed

iPhone vortex, that one handed portal that sucked

Everyone’s soul down hell’s drain. Just look how

We’ve bubbled up and who we have allowed

To claim surface. They’re exposing themselves now

And stand naked behind the White House

Door and each lie. As impassioned people

Shout out, while others try to avoid the news

Altogether, we are now all trans-social,

Shuttling between mind and body, not too much

A gender realignment as one of the soul.

What has died? Is it us as we were, as they

Prepare the knife to release us? Or the chance

For renewal as power is placed in the worm.

It slides and sidles now as I speak, sliming

Its way through your carpet. Call, or stamp, 

It won’t answer. What else fell with Floyd?

None confirm. News passes like air,

And we forget all too quickly. But Donald

Officially hates his people, as does Un-Priti

And Bore-is. And Farage, the shit spreader.

Weeds in the garden that burst plume

And flower. Make no mistake, they seed

Soiling. Your earth is unsteady. You don’t

Know what to read. We’re all waiting.

Meanwhile the fascistic flag is unfurling

And fucking Dominic

Is still there.

David Erdos June 5th 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.