I OF THE NEEDLE by David Erdos - Poem 29 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

  Poem 29 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

I OF THE NEEDLE

 

 

The fear rises and roars. Does this all feel a little bit Nazi to you?

Ten thousand Covids created since Christmas in the absence

Of Gold, mirth and myrrh. And today desperate three hour

Middle aged queues as waves of pensioners are fast punctured.

 

In search of fresh poise the persuasion of the needle steel state

Promotes Sirs and indeed more Ma’ams, too; pinned for a master race

Any moment, prime movers soon shaken. In this race to master

Strain who finds calm? It’s certainly not there in the numbers,

 

Which soar right at the point of injection. As if this were a time

To be tested not for this flu but for a near biblical wave of fresh

Harm. Now, not even the children are safe, so we Guinea Pig

Our old people. Unable to run the wheel, they’ll spin sitting

 

As we watch from behind slides and screens, for any sign

Of improvement or life in the now or ever after; just what

Will we see separated that those praying in camps couldn’t

Glean? Some further world where the smoke gives way to air

 

Freshly scented, and where bombed and buggered by the needle

Point’s prick Stepford saves. A world made of wives who behind

The smile are all robot, or one where men near psychotic explode

Once defiant as a remote control programme plays. As in

 

Mike Hodges’ The Terminal Man with the near forgotten

George Segal. That was an experiment also and an eerily quiet film.

It had a trace of the current clamour as well, as even a climate

Of cure aped the Nazi, and a man whose mood altered

 

When a button was pressed dared death’s kiln. Imagine that kind

Of kill, if you will. No doubt the thought is hysteric. But when a pure

Panic pushes, people or so we have seen, start to fall. They are

Bundled on trains or kept quite calm in their kennels;

 

Quickly curtailed, even eager and keen to receive stick and ball.

Who throws it? Who runs? And just which tail are we chasing?

I sit and growl, gaze and whimper. I wag my phantom leash.

My tongue lags. And I jut my face to the wind that seems to speak

 

A new language. The eye of a needle is tiny. But in that space

Is a window in which either our future is folded, or our past

Contained in black bags. Nobody knows what this is. But it has

Been nearly a year. Junkies jostle. And addicts of course,

 

Forego answers. All they want is the fix. God’s fuck drags.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

David Erdos, January 2021

 

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.