THE HANGOVER

THE HANGOVER

And so they rush back to the pubs as if they were

Bees plumbing flowers, wrecking the stem that would

Save them by preserving some source of life. Grateful

As grubs given lease to the light beneath stones as

They’re lifted, and kissing the glass with more ardour

Than they would a girlfriend, parent, partner, or wife.

But, people, as you fill your throats it’s a double edged

Sword you’ll soon swallow. For while a returned taste

Of freedom enables you all to feel safe; there is already

The sense that this will be a kind of trap that ensnares

You; a cruel deceit, gifted, stolen when after consuming

The proximity and exposure enhances contagion and

Strives to send you DT—ing back to your cage. As you

Wake on Sunday, primed, pleased how will you define

Your hangover? The Delirium Tremens that shakes you

May come from the last four months shock, as removed

From the real it takes an ice-cold pint to remind you

That the blood you’ve felt stalling can only pump again

At drink’s dock. We’ve all been boats bobbing

By an unsteady quay, let’s be honest, waiting for

The vast sea to claim us and onto which we can sail now

And crest, towards the individual horizons we seek, or,

To our own private islands, where a Sunday’s satisfaction

Is arrived at through the pleasure of a Saturday night

Lager test. Last night I drank with a friend over zoom,

Neither of us wanted to venture out. It unnerved us,

Not at the need to drink, but behaviour and the proper lack

Of precaution we saw - on the news of the lads and lasses,

Too, drowning sorrow, while seemingly unaware that the normal,

As if you could sup it back, felt like war. So, who were the true

Victims; us? Not wanting to conform to the chaos, or those

Crammed by counters, or tapping their apps for a short?

The approximations abound, in this bad photocopy

Of the former pictures made; experience as flat image,

For iPhone photos in reminding us of life soon distort,

And the drinks we once shared surrender some of their

Flavour and Pavlov’s Dogs resume licking at the wound

Of the world, by pub doors. Last night, did the returning

Hordes drink to forget, or did they merely indulge

To remember? As the headaches hum around lunchtime,

I wonder if any of us truly know what’s been wrought.

Drink is always a refuge of course, a willingness to become

As one with the waters which comprise most of the world

And our bodies, a subsumation perhaps to the start, of life

Itself in the sea and the still dreamt palisades of Atlantis;

Has such a Utopia been imagined in climbing aboard each

Pub’s fleet? Who knows? We drink deep to feel part of

Something. My simple fear is, that cramming, that need

To return stays a dream, as the ship hollows out

And the bonhomie bridles, and a passing taste of past

Pleasure soaks and unties each soft seam. We aren’t held

Together by much. Only by promises and illusions. And so,

It is the friends you must savour, not the drink as such.

Scale the need. For after the pleasure and pain there will

Always remain the vast question: Just what is it we are doing

In order to once again feel the same? Like John Mills in the film

Ice Cold in Alex, we have endured endless desert. The Pure’s

Been parched. We’ve cracked flame. And yet a flame rarely dies.

There is a constancy to all fire. So, in reclaiming the drink,

Floods are fashioned. The river flows further and always

Towards the sea’s gain. The waves roar today, as a

Worrying shadow hangs over the return of the light sent 

To blind them and a new and brutish path towards blame.

So, I sit and confuse about what will happen in the coming

Days doused by drinking and of how celebration may sour

When Saturday night comes again.

David Erdos July 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.