BALLARD’S DOG

BALLARD’S DOG

Have we adapted too fast? You might say

What choice was there? But under the suffering

Shield, past survival seems a little more stained

Than before. Just like a book that has aged,

The paper once proud, appears fragile,

As I strain to read, each eye older and sadly

Unaffected by the slice of summer light at the door.

The house is a tunnel today, with front and back

Door both open, in order to grant the illusion

Of movement towards the no longer known

And unknown. Which seem to have become

Very different things as mystery and memory

Change position, and like a dog whose lead

Tightens and with blindfolds on our mouths,

We follow. It is an unremitting sun now that fries

This small meal of words, this hot poem,

Which gives no sustenance as I stir it, here on

The patio and singed path. I am reminded at once

Of High Rise’s first sentence. In Ballard’s book,

The dog that’s been roasted is just the first sign

Of chaos, and a madness, too, baked to last.

But we should remember at once that chaos contains

Many colours. It can also be calm as limbs sever

And each former aspect of love crusts and masks.

We can even forget how we were, lost in the throes

Of ruined love, lust, and anger, so to fall now,

Unguarded, as we scramble for hope stains dyes cast. 

I am writing for wariness, then. Or some new form

Of caution. If we are to avoid Jim’s predictions,

As artful as they are, where are we? Are we perhaps

Out in the field, willing each tree to source stories,

That were we to cut ourselves open would soon reveal

Nature’s legends scored into our core endlessly?

Or, are we still kept in our homes, thrusting our hands

Behind every sofa, scouring desperately for solutions

That money may provide. Can it still? I sniff the air,

Like a dog. Tilting my face to this unremitting sun,

My eyes open. The light’s accusation astounds me.

Would that these words were water and that the fire

I feel could not kill. And yet here we are. We remain.

Burnt, but bewildered. Wracked but still watchful

Of the cares yet to come through the cool. This, we

Must guard, as Ballard’s barbequed dog once book

Witnessed. For there will surely be many pages

And roughly hewn stages upon which

Each lost Lear finds their heathspace and where

The accompanying day makes us fool. Our stories

May yet turn to ash but there is still a chance

We may Phoenix. Howling the song that hounds

Hollow before the flavours they chase baste

Taste’s school. The act of transformation’s begun.

As man as dog seeks fresh masters. For the ones

We have will not save us. It is there in HG Wells

And in Ballard. The shape of things to come

Needs new tools.

David Erdos July 30th 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.