THE RIPPER, REAPED by David Erdos - Poem 7 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

 Poem 7 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

THE RIPPER, REAPED

 

 

Peter Sutcliffe has died, forcefully condemned by Corona.

Will the women weep as death’s lorry drives him

Finally from the road. For as the blood lost to him cakes

To create the crusted shroud that contains him,

Their unsaved tears taint the river on which souls separate,

 

Strain and flow. Under Covid, Light Entertainers have died

Alongside Serial Killers. Death’s divide has no censure,

And a somewhat bewildering take on taste, making all lives

Equal of course, and then almost immediately, abstract;

Crimes and careers intermingling as we encounter the news

 

Every morning before it disappears like toothpaste.

Do harm and horror go too once we know they’ve been ended?

Does laughter’s legacy linger and murder’s chorale chorus in?

It’s said that Sutcliffe went blind after being attacked.

What thoughts coloured the blood and the black

 

He’d been given, after forcing the dark through his sin?

Nothing’s forgiven, forgot, or God forbid, misremembered.

What a monster does leaves a scarring for all of those

Left behind. From the stolen victims, straight through

To the families that come after. The two extremes; screams

 

And laughter form convergent streams for spliced minds.

Death is always a knife, or a Scythe that latterly Covid

Has sharpened. In cutting Sutcliffe and recently Bobby Ball,

The field’s cleared. Or, is clearing still, every day as the penalties

Push so many, and families bear the losses of both everything

 

Feared, or held dear. Certainly for my generation, remove

Of every sort has been startling. The totems of the times

We remember, and the distance of the days that kept them

Close now feels far. Those who helped us first have been lost,

As well as those who first demonstrated the problem.

 

The damned and divine go together, and suddenly the mist

On the hill leaves no scar. We just can’t get to it. Not yet.

So let us try to move past strange decisions to create a world,

Very slowly in which no-one will fall quite as far, and laugh hard,

And thus, bear the brunt of whatever the wildest of winds

 

Carries for us, as we carve out new states of being,

We can watch the Reaper work. Free from ripping,

We can still repair through these bars.

 

 

David Erdos, November 14th 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.