THE UNCIVIL WAR by David Erdos - Poem 30 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

January 12, 2021

Poem 30 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

THE UNCIVIL WAR

How do we write about hate at a time when hate itself has run riot,

Ripping its way across reason and destroying all sense in its wake.

For, as the assholes in Atlanta each prey, one might almost call

For Atlantis to rise once more and then topple washing away

Shit and servant in the name of a cleaner day and truth’s sake.

That fact that people sift through Trump’s filth as if it were

The gold in his toilet is more alarming and hateful

Than the heathen hordes of last week. Cajoled, and controlled

By someone with more brains than their bastard, who bombs

And emboldens nightmares’ Zarathustra to speak.

It was Nietzsche also who said he knew what would happen.

His word would be mangled, pressed as it was through the Reich.

‘I am dynamite,’ Friedrich said. Well, Donald Trump is pure Napalm,

Lifted from the Vietcong and gas wafted onto the American man,

Child and wife. Whether the storming of the Senate was planned,

Or just another smashed mirror, the point is his rejoicing and incitement

To break broke the States of Washington, play and human unbeing,

As his PR bests impeachment. He’ll be the morons’ Martyr next.

That’s our fate. To actually live in a world where this can and did happen.

What we thought a joke killed us, whether or not we still stand.

The fascistic tripe of fake news becomes a modern trope people follow.

The discussion of this, the acceptance is what consolidates this marred man.

This plastic Anti-Christ for a Bible borne out of babble, apes Babel,

As now nothing is clear. Not one sentence that he has ever mouthed

Or dared speak. From injecting detergent and light as a means to win over

Covid, which ‘doesn’t exist’, like the climate, to his sickly snatching

Of Pussy or would be date with his daughter before his fouled

Inaugural week. And now they’ll impeach him twice. Well, he does

Have that fruit’s colour, but as the juices run sour America’s Uncivil War

Finds fresh fuel. What else can they do, shoot him? No. Because

Now he’s become too important. He’s affected more change

Than Lincoln and Kennedy, too, or Wilkes Booth. He’s been

Whatever they thought Oswald was. Or even AIDS. He’s a sickness.

But the deaths he has brought to the spirit almost equal the flesh.

He’s numbed news. In making this point I mean no offence

To past victims. I simply wish to imply this corrosion after four

Scorched years will get worse before it can heal. Whatever Biden

Bids the left welcomes. But now the right, more than ever,

Firing in from the far call for curse. And this has been a time

Of blight, has it not? And in a Biblical sense for all climates.

It is not a Cold War, or a hot war, but a war instead with the air.

On which Wagner’s Valkyries ride on the wings of germs

To stalled fanfare and where the sky or street space

Between us has prised and divided and delivered us all

Beyond care. And so, we watch appalled, as the never

Imagined before is enacted. For just as Trump tramped

All reason, others rose in support. This is a testament to the times

That like it or not we are failing. With God as examiner,

Our revision has either been cancelled, or burned by idiots

For their sport. Only now, finally as does the fat bird fall,

Song untweeted. But he won’t sink through the silence,

He’ll just buy a network. And become a more dangerous voice.

There’ll be more deceit that Blair’s biog. This will be no

After dinner; this will be a sin sauced speech served through dirt.

And as America’s sliced, then a Chinese takeaway can take over

All world affairs and all business. As one shop is shut, others

Grow, and this small rant reveals just what Trump has accomplished.

The Age of Stupid just thickened. The Corons rule. He won’t go.

Instead, the world’s worst loser defines what we need to do

That world over. Start again. And rear Statesmen

And Stateswomen too, from fresh earth. Something of course

Stalls this growth. So, I say, resort, if you can, to your window

Boxes. Find a pot, jar and seed them, with the flag you found

And dreams’ worth. And let us find the means by which this war

Freshly raged does not remain one of attrition; but is instead

The hard answer to the question that comes from this year.

How did it come to this? That means more to me now

Than just how do we solve this. We must not fear language.

We must make it our own through the tears. For there is now

A fresh war abroad as well as home. There are several.

Call them Brexit, or Boris, Covid, of course. Donald, too.

Though one was enough. It’s a bad joke time. But who’s laughing?

Only the Devil. But he’s not down there. He’s in you. Defeat him

And then these bastards can’t happen. Our society is the parents

Who in denying, grant these mysteries their first clue.

David Erdos, January 11th 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.