David Erdos

David Erdos

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.  

Cameron's Crawl
Monday, 13 November 2023 14:11

Cameron's Crawl

Published in Poetry

Cameron's Crawl

by David Erdos 

Somewhere in Chess sits that secret moment
When the board turns to fire as the predetermined vision
Ignites, and when the parade of each piece before the gaze
Of fate proves astounding, revealing how what’s decided
Is framed by both the cosmic black and star white

The moving of politicians perhaps is much more
Than just the opposite of that process. The phrase cabinet
Reshuffle is the desperate pose of the checked,
For this moving of mates is arbitrary at best,
Not strategic. It is an attempt to hide behind order

As the Rat Ship slides into sinking and as chaos
Flames below deck. It is worse that wankers
Who frot inside their own pockets. And is not
As calm as cards who slice cleanly between fortune
And decline. It is a last turgid act in which

Unable to plan, you move madly. As if you were
Cheating at scrabble or leaving and losing your
Shit. It’s a sign. As recently as yesterday Sunak still
Supported Suella, sadly another Indian woman
Who made her boorish predessor seem astute.

I’ve used this joke before but I cannot resist
Its repeating as this shrill sounding siren
Kept singing a sick c for Canute. Make light
Of those letters to read what I think of these people
Who strive to lead us, just as the Pied Pipist

Led rats. And lets not forget his dark price
And who he took back to the mountain. Which one
Of us will stay beach bound when survival’s song
Resounds flat? The walls are closing in, made of sand,
And Rishi soon will slump, buried. Alarmed by Starmer

Who is somewhat surprisingly on the rise, Rishi
Returns from under his rock, the crab Cameron
Who has been licking probably the same pearls
And Oysters that Sunak’s tax-free wife must assize.
No doubt there are living the dream of past days

Creamed by glory. Which in Politics can last minutes
Or a half score of years; which the public will never get back,
Pawns, priests and even Queens sacrificed, or soldiers dead.
Pensions frozen. Alan Bennett was right, live to 90 and still
Be able to boil an egg you’re held dear. This happened

With Oswald Mosley and soon, it will happen with Boris.
Though God forbid he continues his toilet squat for that long.
But TV will soon have him back, which shows how we should
All make our returns quick to reading, or to the piano placed
In the parlour, where families once fused around song.

When it happens it will show how stupid we are,
And clearly how guileless as we allow the erosion
Of standards like Suella’s empty sea to suck shores
Of their welcome and sheen. And so Cameron crawls,
Lobster licking, with crap and caviar soon combining

To stain and stink step and door. Behind which Sunak
Steers towards the After Dinner Speech Circuit.
Not to mention the book that by Christmas 24 or 25
Will feed trash, whether placed in the shops,
Or languishing in a dustbin. The print of another

Displaced slim-hipped shadow placing a fat-faced fool
There beside him as the sinking ship does a wheelie
To become our next fatal car-crash, as we careen
Between choice and the lack of it bequeathed to us.
Under his storm, Sunak’s steering is not a safe return

To bland bays but a mayday signal at best, the wave
Of a soon to be anonymous arm in its drowning.
Even if he wins, it’s not worth it. As it seems no decision
Made while aboard that careless craft can convey
What needs to happen. And so Cameron’s call

And each news unworthy item is another nail
In the coffin that has already been thrown out to sea.
We just have to secure it, that’s all. But have you ever tried
To hammer hard through wild water? It chills chance,
Hands and motion, stopping it dead. Are fish free?
Or just biding time until we can trap them.

It’s a good job Democracy’s broken, and that equal
For all cannot be, or else the elite would be unable
To roam, forget and then net us. For just as we are
Cod-driven, they would have us with chips, easily.
Politics now, today is what Pop was in my childhood:

Cannibalistic. Music sweetened. But this is sour stuff.

Spit back. Checkmate. Unvote. Change.



Gaza Stripped
Saturday, 15 May 2021 12:41

Gaza Stripped

Published in Poetry

Gaza Stripped

by David Erdos

War is raw in reverse, which is the state of foul play in Gaza.
Now, more than ever is the wrath of God reinvoked. As those
Once chosen now choose to persecute their close neighbours
In methods as lethal as the holocaust’s harsh killing joke.

For a joke can be seen as something separate to clear reason.
As with what Hitler decreed; all that followed was seeing how far
That tale spun, which is clearly happening now, as over seventy
Years of resentment breeds hatred, stemming it seems from

The sharing of what was thought at first to be won - after both
Tribulation and trial, Exodus and excoriation, but which has now
Become to my horror and to the horror of all the next nail
Hammered into the hands of the Palestinian born boy Bibles

Worship, whose equivalent today bleeds in Gaza. As his children
Are torn, truth’s impaled. One would never believe that so called
Holy Land was fought over. Or that the same soul stained city
Would be rendered in twain and reduced as being the homeground

From which the Palestinians are evicted by Israeli force
And by soldiers, as what we thought we were falls traduced.
I write this now as a jew and in a near state of panic, for while
Irreligious I am proud of my heritage, which contains survival

And strain, the pyramids, yes, and Shylock. Hollywood,
And a culture of tailors and towns long pillaged. So this has
Always felt like revenge, of the sourest sort, and more bitter
Than the pungent root sucked at Pesach to remind us of course

Of the past. I can taste and hear it today as Hamas fire rockets
And the threat of War like the virus and after Trump sounds
Like signs storming out of the earth, as a burning bush
Reconfigures, but which remains unseen when surrounded

By so much fired faith and crossed lines. If God is indeed
Speaking there, then no-one close can bare witness,
Or indeed hear the calling as the shouts of life and death
Clash. For just when the top end of the west thinks its free,

The Middle East carves fresh chaos. And what we thought
We knew about people and other places on earth fall to ash.
This need now for land, which seemingly can’t be shared,
Creates ruin; the kind that runs from the desert all the way

Towards overload. In our green and once pleasant land
There’s been plight that no-one ever dreamt of. The last few
Years have brought scandal once more around jewish codes.
But is anti-semitic feeling still that, or solely concerned now

With Israel? Zionism for me is as separate as the trainer is
To the road. I wear them not only to run, or rather to walk,
But for comfort. And yet once applied there’s a process
That others would call exercise. So, what has it become

Over there, but a set routine they can’t loosen. And what more
Will it take; how much horror, before they finally recognise
That unlike the knife Abraham placed against his son Isaac’s
Throat to test favour, these brutalities will not save them,

And nor, will it in time, bring them peace. For there can be
No true peace once there’s war. Everywhere’s raw once
That happens. For peace to come we’ll need Noah, or fresh
Tablets to form and release some new unknown truth

Belonging to Mohamed, Christ, or just Moses. And then, latterly,
Buddha, though only of course from rebirth, and at a time
When one’s race and one’s place as well is location and where
Each faith is the journey that with no destination reached

Achieves worth. There are protestations today.
Temples fall, raised. Lives are bartered. If one child cries
Is religion , or humanity itself doused in dirt? This is the question
Today: what do we live or die by? What do you believe?

For what reason? Look, Gaza is stripped. Like all earth.

Separate Cells
Monday, 22 June 2020 14:18

Separate Cells

Published in Poetry

David Erdos introduces his new collection of poems, downloadable below. The collection is illustrated by Max Crow Reeves, who also made the image above.

Coronic Irrigation: An Introduction

by David Erdos 

If an irritation is seen as something that disturbs
The smooth surface, thus came Corona to rub
And to warp settled flesh. I started setting my thoughts
Into verse as February sought its foreclosure, and by
The time of my Lockdown on the 23rd of March

Words were dressed

By the rhythms and rhymes

Echoed within this introduction,
As my pen tried to tidy the chaos
Of what I feared and felt coming next.
And so it has proved,

As the simply unconceivable came to dream us,
Making our past lives the fiction that a sedentary
State came to write. And so I posted each day
Each written text to colleagues and friends
On email and textbook and then started

Recording on Youtube from the my own Psalm 23
To cast light on some of the issues I felt
Would spike and stain everybody; Johnson
As Bete Noire, and Cummings the stain
On each night. Or the Cabinet Corons as a whole

Who have stumbled by day and through darkness.
In the clash of information they’ve given
The fight to feel free has begun. What has been
The true contagion; Covid? Or, the fact that we
Have become almost nstitutionalised in our houses?

As BLM and BAME batter, to master the murders
At hand, who has won? This is what these poems reflect,
Along with Max Crow Reeves’ stunning photos.
Each entry is a diary, and a novel, too; a small film.
Poetry I would hope for those unversed in it.

Monologues with a mission. Fires first found
In thought’s kiln. The hope is they will speak
And soothe or stoke irritations, and that as these
Striving words wound oppressors, the scars
On screen and on paper may in some small way

Soon reveal the rising heart held beneath
This book of me written for you.
Life after Lockdown will sequel.
But here’s the first feature that tries
To describe what most feel.

It was written in my garden each day
And recorded across the day’s music.
As the birds sang their warnings,
I lucky to have light and space,
Wrote towards darkness as I tried to

Contain our new real.

The downloadable pdf below is free, but if you want to make a donation towards our costs, use this button. We hope you enjoy reading it.