DEAR FATHER, IT IS FOUR YEARS SINCE MY LAST CONCESSION by David Erdos - Poem 5 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

 Poem 5 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

DEAR FATHER, IT IS FOUR YEARS SINCE MY LAST CONCESSION

We knew it would happen of course, but never dared

To imagine that the pitch of it would be as stirring

As A Day In the Life’s final chord; as one President squats

And the other becomes an exiled Lionheart roaring nobly

History, and Literature splinter, as even sense itself

 

Meets its sword. We knew he was mad, lustful and spoiled,

Spermed by power, and like the teenage boy always at it,

Once you take the hand away, the toy stalls, shattering

In his grip as the tantrum throbs to reclaim him,

And we are all covered in the tempest he stokes

 

From spiked balls. It would be a Shakespearian play

If he had any proper control over language, other than

The falsity he’s been preaching, by espousing what’s fake

He fucks fact. But it could be Macbeth and Macduff

And Malcolm too, wanking wildly across their lost

 

Blood strewn kingdoms in which both Jaws

And Dunsinane might attack. Now, past means

Will seem to have merged into one, as reason’s abuser

Continues, raping truth, raging, warping and weaving

The real like that hair - that not only covers the bald,

 

Naked truth, but which also exposes the precipice

That peace plays on, and from which those who’d

Divide us would push us all from, free from care.

Meanwhile, in England, the so called Cabinet shakes,

Rattling bones from the cupboard. Releasing

 

Resignations, repressions, and the brittle bitter bite

Of the brats who prattle over the path that their cartoon

Storybooks say leads to power, as BJ sucks and blows;

Hollowed bellows and his fellows are forced to fall

Smacked. Certainly a form of fire’s begun but what

 

Will rise from its ashes? The gloried phoenix hope fights for

Or some other darkened demon, or bird that will spread

Its wings on harsh winds to summon the other monsters

Who rules us, or, simply create such a shadow that those

Seeking light stoop, absurd. And yet what can still happen

 

Is hope, signalled perhaps by Trump’s stalling. The office

Can move despite him, as if the White House walls

Could be craned. At least in the spiritual sense, as the CIA

Starts its shifting and Air Force One sends the signal

To no longer salute the insane. John Adams did not want

To go and threatened Thomas Jefferson, let’s remember,

But in those forming days rules were written that time

In turn, underlines. For now MacDonald dumbs down,

While the forest fries meat to tempt him. Let it be his own

Flesh he feeds on, and let his soul if he has one, concede

 

And confess a fouled mind. We have not seen his like

Since Mussolini or Hitler. By which I do not imply he’s a killer.

Although he has indeed murdered truth. In wishing so many

People the worst, we can only return his long insult.

Confess. Concede. Vanish. Just like you, we accuse you,

 

And unlike you, we have proof.

David Erdos November 12th 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.