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.  

A Penis for Christmas
Tuesday, 14 December 2021 17:07

A Penis for Christmas

Published in Poetry

A Penis for Christmas

by David Erdos

The predicted ice age did not come - although it was on the Daily Mirror
Website for god's sake - and while reactions to news can't be sacred
As there is no gospel truth to these times, the chill still persists

When considering the scourge of B. Johnson, a former euphemism
For penis who would fuck in a foul way to turn what language we have
To bad rhymes. This randy hound's doggerel produces yet one more baby;

To the damnable devil a daughter to extend the dynasty he has bred;
One to rule over the earth and empire of ego he favours,
Built from the bodies and still tender bones of the dead.

He has been a joke for so long everyone knows the punchline
And yet they still tell it, while not swapping told tales for the fresh,
And he still gets to hold his undeserved place of attention,

Ruffling the hair as Ken Dodd did but with none of the charm.
His fat flesh still remains on our screens while Dodd and most other joys
Have retreated, as evidenced by the parties and celebrations of self

That Boris first hid and for which he then tried to be sorry;
But then a standing prick has no conscience and a laugh too late
Strips the health from a restorative joke, or from a recovering time;

It falls hollow as does his tenancy within office and his residence
On the earth. A would be despot without the psychopathy maybe.
Although he has the detachment and the lack of concern for our worth.

So many lies, cover-ups, blatancies, obfuscations, and yet only now
Do we see it, or start to say what is seen; that unlike that sweet
Christmas treat this particular pig in his blanket strives only to choke us

So that he may cough once more through the screen, with the only
Proper language he has; those cartoon like sounds of bluster,
Hasty strokes that were tasty to the Brexit burned first of all

And before all the rest were promptly cast that fire, under his arson,
The shit he has stoked fuels our fall. But laughing at him does not help
As parodic ease only proves the lack of substance he offers,

Or, conversely how covers for what goes on beneath make us fools
Who do not know we are fucked by sharing the air with such people
Who work through our conscience like acid through drains

As hope cools. His numbers slide as his pink knuckles tighten.
What will he do; breed more babies to give the gullible public headlines,
While the party and parties go on, with or without our suspicion,

And the PM as penis makes a post mortem of sorts as fears climb.
Omricon. Babylon. Which is to be our next destination?
And who's there to guide us; this one-eyed trouser snake,

Or an Eve, or guileless Adam perhaps swayed by yet more
Temptations. Or will there be Noahs, with better ancient tales
To believe. The Woke will know. But what will they do to write them?

Stoke revolution, or fund a currency of care we have lost,
That will invest in new worlds requiring new recipes and concoctions.
Perhaps in cuddling up with the Quantum the price of an alternative

Earth is our cost. All we need do is stop, knowing that somewhere
Else it continues. Where men like him and the women, or the less
Than human crew on his Ark will not sail over us; instead,

They will be held accountable for their voyage. And where the proper
Paradise we seeking does not become their theme park.
This particular prick must be kicked, not into touch, but to darkness,

Both he and his cronies because of what it is they have done;
Which is to strip out the sense from even the idea of survival.
He is the real immigrant on her island as Johnson and Patel

Make hell home. Its where they want to roam and rule all;
Along with whoever else stains the sacred. So we must begin
A new Bible in which within snowfall the semblance of Spring

Seeds hope's throne.

Shooting the Moon
Saturday, 24 July 2021 10:29

Shooting the Moon

Published in Poetry

Shooting the Moon

by David Erdos

So now they are shooting off into space, from Bezos
To Branson; Billionaires owning orbits costing 402 Million
By the min. All this as The Sex Pistols sue John and Lydon
Deems the Disney deal rotten, while Dolly Parton reposes
For Playboy at the age of 75. Mammon wins.

It would seem to be a spiralling world in which everything
Goes for a burton, while yesterday, Michael left us,
Translated to a far better place, news can bruise.
Bringing sky to the surface through skin, as the colour
Blues and then purples, the tone that Horovitz wore

As an emblem. We need such vibrancy back.
We're confused. And so, Supermarket stacks of pizza
Fall stale, as Priti monstrous Patel bribes all borders;
Keeping migrants away for more millions, while we,
The self and unemployed pray for grants, there to keep us

Afloat as seas of metaphor roar around us, and we cling onto
Due dates as wind and whim destroy driftwood with every
Changing tide's circumstance. All of the institutions feel
As blown as the daisy chains of my childhood; just as
A buttercup brimming over threatens to sink where sense hid,

Meanwhile the former Political Advisor thinks on, designing
His own domination, while CJ and BJ Macbluff and Lady Macbeth
In Knightsbridge. Or wherever they lurk, from Princess Margaret's
Mustique, to the murk that pig slurries: whatever, however,
It will be a bestial belch we're all hearing before true beauty

Returns to Carthage. Other palaces fall. While for some,
Gates stay polished. People joke about the next lockdown,
While others it seems set its date. The entire world's on a wall.
You can see it from space. Branson glimpsed it. Then, Bezos, too.
Jeff, keep going. May you forever become astral weight.

We'd get shot of the lot of you, chum, share things out,
Before starting on those aiming for us. The targets stay
Terrified, yet through trouble, and if you fuck us much more

We'll shoot straight.

Hancock's Least Half Hour
Monday, 28 June 2021 14:27

Hancock's Least Half Hour

Published in Poetry

Hancock's Least Half Hour

by David Erdos 

One by one they display a stunning disregard for their dictates:
From freewheeling car trips to these vomit enduced pap-kiss-pix.

As BJ holidays with every change of wind or whim, DC bridles,
And PP grows more ugly, as the evil within makes sneers twist.

And now this, with the chimp they would slap, the slipped gimp,
As he limply retreats under pressure, not it seems from ineptness,

But through the helplessness of his dick, which has shortened
A career, as it does for most Politicians, abbreviating his future,

Just as he shortened his name: carless prick. To have flouted
The rules he fast reined, has made this Government stable of horses

More suspect than the stacked bets around Shergar, or if you
Can remember Red Rum, those death made duds, whose last thuds

Followed quickly after they’d studded, as this halfcock peoples
The field, filth and future, not even through pleasure or with

Orgasmic scream, but low hum, which now drones through us all,
Like the pulse within Conspiracy theory, as we realise that these jockeys,

Small as they are win no race, against contagion or fate. They are just
A poor parade. A bet wasted. Any recent vote is just paper from which

A losing slip can be traced. We lose the energy to oppose, although,
Of course we do. There are riots. Anti-mask. Anti-Israel. Anti-Vaccine.

Anti-this, And while they all preserve life, as much as soul, pluck
And spirit, they do not topple jockeys, or owners even from the bliss

That they have made from our blame, as we struggle within their
Ever mutating restrictions, for which until last week, this era’s Hancock

Had wearied and moaned his way through. He didn’t have the jokes
Tony had, or any of the appeal, or charisma, or talent for truth,

Only orders that his bullying Boss bum smacked blue. And all
In an attempt to score rules in the colour of blood that builds Kingdoms.

For look how our current one topples, all resting now on the Queen,
For as long as she lives. But what happens then? England cancels?

Or is in fact taken over by dullards whose every fart makes us scream.
Matt Hancock cocked up his last job and has become an even greater joke

Through the screwing. For his wife and family there’ll be fixing that they
Will all now forego or contend. And yet the real joke’s on us, as we continue

To let such things happen, freely. Not in terms of his penis, but of the people
Who claim they seek Covid’s end. And who simply do as they wish.

Their brazenness is the issue. The arrogance stacked behind it,
Makes their ignorance social rape. We think we parody them,

But it is they who are are spitting at us through each image.
The freedom these last weeks leased still feels fragile, as numerous spikes

Spear health’s shape. Would Labour be any better, some say.
Well, we would hope so. As would the Lib-Dems, who received a sudden

Burst recently. As Hancocks’ adulterous ejaculation filled gaps,
Perhaps he conceived insurrection. But as my friend Stuart says,

If in power, sadly prospective terms from now, the alternative must seek
Release from the bloody burdens imposed so that we may at last start

To do something. It is not enough to despise them we have to make it
Impossible for them to impose, or go on. We have to elongate truth.

And extend explanation. We have to create a world in which people
Can outline a fool and draw round to create a perfect portrait for all,

In some future frame I can’t picture, but which we can detail so that
In times to come hope is found. And from which they will watch Matt’s
Sad show, laughing as they did once at Tony; a comedian from a culture,
Which knew it was stronger: this was why those Galton and Simpson gags

Always worked. Its only now we’ve allowed the clowns to make us
Wear the make-up, which is the sum of fear and a mask’s worth,

As the future is filed by false clerks. I listened to Hancock’s failing bleat;
A long diced lamb to the slaughter. And then considered the porcine

Or perhaps bully beefstock PM. The aforementioned Ms Piggy,
Who would turn bacon sour, and gristle faced Gove and the rumours

That simmer all sacrifice as taste ends. When will we learn and when
Will we change our diet? We certainly require fresh protein if we can

Cut out the carbs and defend the fit from the fat, by which I refer
To thought, not the body. For it is only then that half-cocking, will fire

And find a full place, and where the signal shot can ring out
And the games begin made for glory. At that finish line love is waiting

As is Tony Hancock’s own smiling face. He had a bad end of course.
Matt has served nothing at all with his middle. So, fall in love with beginning

And to a time in the future when the world we had renews quickly
And where every star glimmers not just for the outer, as it attracts our own

Inner space.

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.

The Cumm-Back
Saturday, 24 April 2021 16:46

The Cumm-Back

Published in Poetry

The Cumm-Back

by David Erdos

And so Cummings condemns and throws even their
Former secret codes into chaos. As with any supposed
Divorce, the embittered try to deny what once was.

It is as if the Tin Man had spilt the rotten beans kept
Inside him, to poison the cowardly Lion, with his fart-like
Exhalations as he waddles towards his warped Oz.

The issue is: do we care? This is just like ‘bored of Brexit.’
As fucked by farragos, the cargos of lies oil-slick out.
Corrupting the shore, the seas’ surround and all swimmers,

Whilst staining language, as so little remains without doubt.
We can oppose and decry but will suffer still, doing nothing.
As the point of contagion is always concerned with the germ.

How do we keep our hands clean, alongside the society built
To wash them? If we do conceive fresh solutions, by shifting
Soil, sense and surface to actively turn that lost worm?

I consider the great ones who led, from Luther King, to John
Lennon. Severely wronged, cruelly taken for what they tried
To do, share, or say: messages beyond time and taste, yet still

Rife with substance, while today, those we’re left with, wish
Only to forge their own way. And so, Cummings returns.
In lifting the rock, his crawl stains us. He wishes to burn,

And tear shadow, like a policy made to induce direct,
Or, indirect forms of hate. He’s what they used to call,
A shit-stirrer, but his wrath like broth mixes rancour

With the forces that boil and reduce each and all nourishment.
He resembles one of those strange parts in Shakespeare:
Escalus, the sad servant, plotting in twain with the Duke,

Or, perhaps, the First Murderer in Macbeth, charged with
The dismissal of Fleance. To Old Dominick, we’re all children
For whom the oppressions of fate forsake fluke.

He could possibly be Richard Three; a Domidick, scarce configured.
Unmade for the standards from which decency was designed.
On the prowl for a Prince to terminate in the Tower, eyeing Anne –

Or, his Mary, as he sneers and squints at road signs. We know
That every word is a lie and every line, misdirection. He wants
To see the world crumble but naturally, is no anarchist.

For unlike those who seek change, he isn’t even after reversal.
Instead, he’s the killer, who, with all victims gone can’t resist
Sticking the knife in his chest, just to see what it feels like.

We are in his dream. That’s the madness – when monsters
Like this still exist. And perhaps, that’s the hope: that when
He wakes, we’ll be better; but then, that’s the thing about

Stabbing: once the knife is in, it just twists. And thus,
It deepens. The wound will be one we’re all feeling.
As the bald fucked the blonde bastard with something

As chilling as his passionless, spiteful and carefully placed

Judas kiss.

At The End of England
Friday, 09 April 2021 12:48

At The End of England

Published in Poetry

 At the End of England

by David Erdos

And so England ends, or perhaps the start of the end
Here finds herald as the death of Prince Philip resounds
Like an echo, or tribute perhaps from past times

In which all manner of mysteries remain masked, despite
The gags and shields on our faces, As Heathcote Williams
Would have told you, had he not also sadly ascended,

Prince as he was of Royal lines, from which Philip came,
More so perhaps than our Monarch, who separate now
From his shadow after over Seventy years will be rocked

By not only grief’s avalanche, but by the earthquake
Stoked beneath the red carpets, that her not so Grand
Daughter in law came to ruffle, and which, through ambition,

Her summation of ills duly mocked. Not to mention the Queen’s
No longer esteemed middle son, still sidestepping light’s stark
Exposure, so those unsteady heels, once so strident may stumble

Or stall as they walk and watch the world that remains
And the country split from all shorelines to be one now
Grown stranger than that imagined by Ballard, or one

Repopulated by John Wyndham’s dread Triffid stalks.
The Ruling Class at this time has endured a form of public detention.
With Death as Headmaster, the Governing Gaffer is expelled.

And the Royal brand is tested once more and will strain to seek
Its new value as the world is re-ordered and the deaths post
Diana loosen the pre-cut ropes they once held. There will be

The customary celebrations of state. But what is pomp
And circumstance under Covid? Will crowds on the street
Observe distance, or be perhaps kept away?

And if there are reductions to come, will future precedents
Be set for us? As distance stirs indifference to the standards
And codes of old days? Once you remove the tent-pegs

The tent is just another flag the wind’s taken. You lose
The illusion of home and the homefield, or the uneven
Earth starts to shift. A woman has lost - in terms of love

And duration alone, her foundation. Across what land is she
Seeing and which Queen or Kingdom exists? So many entertainers
Have passed. So many people have lost their foundations.

Today, it's an emblem, not always defendable who has gone.
You can almost hear the rocks start to slide. They’ll need to be
Rearranged at some juncture. But first we must clear our throats.

Be upstanding. Not that they’ll see you if you watch it all
On your phone. The sad ceremony begins an entirely new ritual.
The emptying world needs replacement, as eventually will the throne.

But for the moment, hold on, those of a certain age, who remember.
We must, in time, come together, after the plans and decisions
And the problems faced when alone. I wish you long life.

It is what Jews say in bereavement. I wish us all fresh survival.
Life itself is a royalty from which nothing is ever paid or quite owned.
God, or space, as such owns us all. Heathcote, can you hear me?

The Royal Babylon is re-entered. Now, somewhere beyond,
Starred doors open, and then, yes, you guessed it,
Because of somewhere dark, they soon close.

One Year On
Wednesday, 24 March 2021 11:17

One Year On

Published in Poetry

One Year On

by David Erdos, with image by Paulette Parker

Birds wake me to sing a mutant song for us. Unusual for them,
This stung chorus catches wracked power as well as the pitch
That’s been rising even as we all fall far from shape. It has been
One year today in which zoom and zoo have reframed us,

And thus, we have prowled, part bewildered in some form
Of slow return to the ape. We need Sir David Attenborough
To live long and present or re-introduce our next habits,
For as in Brecht’s In the Jungle of Cities, the citizens survey

The fouled streets, which loll like slack mouths having been
Punched and made toothless as the bite of the economy loosened
And the limpest of licks dabbed at meat. So many juices run dry!
So many bodies stopped! So much anger! So many lost lions roaring

As they struggled to roam ruined plains. Both beast and burden
Aligned as we took on the glare of kept Leopards; with our motion
Blocked, amputation still stalled our progress even if each limb
From four was retained. Instead, we became those we cooked,

Or those whom we watched through Sir David; eyeing each detail
While forgetting the former shape of ourselves. We lost pride
And gained pot, over which we obsessed, spending for it.
Instead of pleasure, leisure and culture, the buying of food

Became hobby, as we exchanged stage and sportsground
For the Universe around kitchen shelves. How will we feel
Once released, about our homes shaped as Prisons?
Will those precious walls and shelves lose their meaning

As we strain for freedom and strive like our animal kind
For the wild? For, as has been seen, Mankind is unkind
To the figures and flesh of the forest. As we hunt and coat
Them in plastic their long hold on wisdom has made our grasping

At life like a child’s, who knows nothing and won’t without
The will to discover what has gone on: as for instance, for what
Reason has this particular time become war? And an Uncivil
One, too, come to that, alongside Trump’s tearing of the flag

To mop bloodstains, or, the numerous bastards of Brexit
And the bitches too, whose guffaw at the need to belong
To a clearly corrupt but nevertheless working system, kept us
At least bound together as this warp in the wind forged a split
Between the world we all want and the one we’ve created;
Two very different things, let’s be certain: Has the control
We’d exert truly slipped? For now so many people forget who
They were and have allowed the ignorant to form answers,

In which Remedial level instruction was quickly dishonoured
By the Hell headed evil of Dominic’s goings and comings
Alongside the despicable actions of the sow for whom seeds
Would wither, the disgusting, uncaring and regardless of feature,

Unpriti Patel. Who has brought shame on both creed and race
With a year of numbed statements, from her fouled fantasy
Of an immigrant’s island to the need to stop protest and crowds
Atttending Sarah Everard’s Funeral. I do not single her out,

As I have, from a sense of personal vindication, but simply
Because I cannot believe how such people are allowed to rise
And go on. With Trump’s fat fruit impeached twice, what point
Over there to impeachment? Would Nixon today have won

Through and wriggled, as Bill Clinton blew sex and Sax also
In order to re-sing love’s last song? Where The Devil are we?
I’m lost. Are you, as well, if you listen? Lost in Living rooms,
Kitchens, lounges and bedrooms too, as you read

About the dearth and the day getting worse, or the marks
On your loved one’s body. At least what has happened
On pillows has put a positive spin within sheets.
For we mustn’t forget that this Lockdown Year has brought

Babies in an almost Catholic style frenzy as each sad death
Was replaced. Yet still, domestic abuse burst like blooms
And colour stung bruises on victims, while others chased
Pastimes that their former working world would not lease.

And so, the balances burn. Or so it seems to me as I write this.
Businesses fold. Friendship creases as misunderstandings,
Like money gain - or in terms of people - lose interest. Some
Have learnt new languages or become Olympic across their small

Gardens. Time is marked and made to discover the secret self.
Loss invests. People make time as time stops, and can catch
Their breath as its challenged. So much so that masks seal them,
Like the lid on a homemade jar of jam. Of which there must be

So many by now, so as to feed the sweet craving soured mouths
Of all nations, as we in turn ache for comfort, either through
The fuel and food of a lover, or the touch lost to many
Of their too soon departed and their still felt and dreamt

Ghosted hands. The former Rat Race has been run, so we must
Learn to walk once more, not as rodents. Or, as a puppet might,
Stretched, or limpid, and subject of course to dark strings,
Of which we glimpse less than a side of sleeve, or, long shadow.

For we do not know who’s still playing, or, moving us about
As fate stings. Perhaps this is just a vaccum of sorts, as the vaccine
Creates vortex. And just like Astronauts in the astral we now approach
The black hole, through which we chase Kubrick’s key twenty years on

From his title, and my own lifetime from filming as we try to chart
A further path for the soul. Where will we be one year on? Stuck inside
This constant parade of reprisals? Or already stacked and camped
Cleanly as a jackboot designs fashion’s shift? Or, will we all work

From homes as defined states and nations; from the county of David,
To the region you’re in, this word gift. My little street broadcasts out
As we all create our own station. Today, friends are filming, while others
Wait overseas. Shaifta smiles in her sleep, sweetly fixing on the good

That can happen. Roger rehearses a play and builds kitchens while
He waits for his business light to go green. The possible mirth
And mar mix in the still empty cities however. Why will Employers
Continue to pay for buildings if their employees can now work

From home? Those ransacked offices could well become rotten teeth
In a voiceless void of damned districts, which while they once hummed
Are now silenced as the sunk spaces jar like scraped bone? In the Ballardian
Scream the future symphony achieves structure. The jab makes us cyborgs

Servants of state: a world brand, in which the souls sold with the one
Percent’s shady dealings see us all steamed, as smoke rises in some
Frightening echo of those chaos chambers that Shickelfuckingruber
Once planned. Who knows? Who can say? Poetry asks certain questions.

And if the answers exist they do solely in a tongue and taint few can read.
And so we Winston away, wordsmiths like him in kept corners. Watchful
No doubt for O’Brien and for where Julia’s Judas kiss may yet lead.
George Orwell’s 1984 came and stayed. In 2021 there’s Fakenewspeak.

But in which and whose quarters will the lovers regroup to resist?
Perhaps in this year and across these double century pieces,
I have been looking for love in past places, and to try and involve you
In this: for my struggle is yours. As yours is mine, the world over.
The Peoples Prison is progress in terms of either capture and calm,
And cast bliss. The Covidian Age was not Bronze, or ice, or stone.
It was water. Passed in piss and tears of sweat, distress, effort
And if you wish to pray, those of joy. This David’s Covid’s untouched.

I have not been ill. I am grateful. And yet I cry and seek the cure
Of my Mother and even at this age now, am a boy,
Searching for home, even while caged within it. I sit staring out
Through this writing as the only effective means I employ.

To reach you, or teach in my own small way the main lesson.
But perhaps the best expression’s unwritten. Perhaps, if I’m honest,
The best lesson of all stays untaught. After one year of this, or,
At least in this country what have I learned? That life’s broken,

And that, if we’re mindful we can repair it all with a thought.
We just have to have the same one and say it at once altogether.
For only then, we’ll find freedom and only then, open doors.
This will not be my last word, I know. But in the scale of fame today

I am Limescale; something to be scraped from scrawl and discovered
Once the ruins are read years from now. At a time in which I may
Become Heiroglyphs, or, cyber print on tombed laptops, and where
A partly heard whisper across a miasmic air is allowed.

For it may distort, yet contain a brief whisp of tune, or splutter
Of algorhymed wisdom, in which the pains we have suffered will tell
The far future how it can finally heal the now. One year on.
Then one more. One Era on. Or one Aeon, stars glaze our surface

As what we were is won and wept across cloud. Should God hear
These words may that alien throne start to glisten. Across this space
And shape I reach for it. May such grace light our losses. I can only hope
In this writing that I have made my dead heroes and my passed parents too,

Duly proud. And yet man has handed ‘misery to man,’ as Larkin’s
‘coastal shelf’ seemed to deepen. So, may we all start to swim from it,
And may those stars as sea breed new life. This one has certainly been
Compromised, but we can prise promise for it. Play and read this, please.

Then make music. As you start to speak from your silence, the birds
May receive us and the joint chorale we’re all part of will learn
To sing once more.

Let’s dream, loud.

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.

Cummings and Goings
Tuesday, 26 May 2020 07:54

Cummings and Goings

Published in Poetry

Cummings and Goings

by David Erdos

 Would Hitler have dumped Eva Braun?
He needed her slavish concession.
The analogy in the UK is that Hitler
Isn’t even the one who’s PM.

No, our bloated blonde Eva backgrounds
By constructing a 3D photocopy
Of presence, while his slick shadow
Is sliming, and staining our day

For their ends. Which seem to seek
All of ours, after his too long career
Of disruption. His former Brexit
Enticements and lie-laced legacy

Still affront. What is your real agenda,
You word that should not be used in polite
Company, or, too freely, but which is all
We have to explode you, as the merest

Thought, or glimpse of you fires
My screaming need to be blunt.
Which is the sort of object you need
To bludgeon the darkness that’s in you,

As the idiot's strings you are strumming
Create the stark discord and souring song
Hate can shape. As Priti Moronic Patel
Vinegars her tasteless word Salad, and her

Stupidity and brutishness makes me bridle
When I see that (un)knowing little smile
On her face. Glamourised in a film,
For which recently, the playwright

Sought forgiveness, this fucking spectre,
In a hoodie and defiant disarray is the threat.
His viciousness is compared to Rod Hull’s
Violent Emu, as demands are delivered

To Bore-is, to see him quartered or drawn
At the neck. Which is what all should do
If they had the bald bastard before them,
In some former England, stocked and bound

In the soft Village Square, where the former
Transgressors were tried for the damages
Wrought on the People, which could include
His breathless Babylon health wheeze

With Hancock; whose murky connection
And endorsements would make the dead Tony
And Sid spark and swear. Cummings advised
This AI initiative implemented, as Matt Hancock

Soon bubbled his own misaligned foaming joy.
There is more to write on all this. Cummings'
Crimes now stack up with the rotten fruit
I’d cast at him. Fruit whose own acids would

No doubt repel at the contact with this
Particular form of bad boy. If his mother
Adores him, good luck, but how can you
Explain such a person, for this supposed

County Durham World bound Non Sheriff
Has no right to the Law and no love.
For he does not serve us. He serves only
The smeared seat of power. We are merely

The effects he engenders when he deigns
To make his move on the board, in blue gloves.
Apparently, someone so connected and prized
Could not even trust private nurses to care

For his son, so he travels, nearly three hundred
Miles through roadblocks. My rage at him knows
No bounds. And neither does he, breaking
Lockdown. A phrase he will have coined on his

Whiteboard, along with Take Black Control,
As hopes drop. For it is a form of dark incantation
He writes, in which we aren’t even the images
That he conjures. Instead, we are the misused

Punctuation; as his ideas soar, we are stopped.
We are the pawns that bore him as he starts
To move the chess pieces. In the Coronic Game,
He’s the Watchman who truly believes he’s a God.

Dr Westminster, perhaps. So he flouts his own
Rules, as Andrew Marr mars Grant Knapps' 
Thin excuses, and (un) Priti Patel smirks
And produces her pathetic attempts to show Plot.

For this isn’t even about Parties now.
This is about Individuals: all of us as we suffer,
And as we worry and die on all lines, and then
All of THEM, who deserve NO POSITION

AT ALL, whether it is the orange Cancer of Donald
Testing ‘Positive Towards the Negative’ (Prick)
Or BJ. Or worst of all, this small C, who nobody
Chose, only Johnson, the Von Stroheim to his

Dietrich, and unmasked anti Morecambe
To his warped (un)Wise, as jokes fray.
This duo produce no care and no charm.
Dominic is just slogans. Arbeit Macht Frei,

I imagine, or, perhaps, Exit is the only real one
That he needs. His tight little bulb of a face is
As far as I can see ripe for puncture; so, lie
And leave, Cummings. But wherever you go

In the future, know that we see your damage.
And hope that your wretched soul starts
To bleed. For the misinformation you serve
And the lack of clarity, may curse find you,

For your disregard and abandon
May you one day truly need. I hope then
We can all piss on your path as Elvis Costello
Wished to tramp the dirt down over Thatcher

I hope a barren land claims you as no earth
In which you will lay will lease seed.
Damn you, your blank stare, and the puppets
You push through the motions.

Would words were fire.
I’d see your strings slack and burn
As we’re rationed, either through food
Or future, know this, you bastard:

While you pick and choose
Our rage feeds.


Coming Home, or Incomplete Integrity

by David Erdos

 Outside his house, it's all clear,
As Dominic Cummings is questioned.
Swatting the reporters away like fat flies
As they dared to question his fleeing,
The Cumstain quoted two metres,
As the distance of truth, amplified.

You worse than worm, smearing earth
As well as air, with deception. Your hard
Stare is an insult to everyone who has died.
One rule for us, another for them is the cliché,
As these cardboard monsters and cabinet
Slugs seek light’s game. Johnson scrambles

For words and ends up with a bad hand
At Scrabble, as he muffs and mutters
In attempting to defend Dom’s dark name.
Complete Integrity? Balls. You wouldn’t
Know how to spell it. Despite your supposed
Education you have learnt nothing it's clear

Of the real. You still think you can do
What you want and that no-one will notice.
Flout the rules. Plot in secret, and benefit
Of course from all deals. And yet actions
Like this expose the naked flesh through
The fabric. They reveal what is mottled,

On the skin and soul and in mind.
On the Lame Minister’s broadcast
Yesterday, a glitch in the zoom quite
Unstitched him, as he called for more
Questions after avoiding the same one
Three times. A muted Ian Watson tried

First before Robert Peston repeated,
But as Zoom’s active speaker faltered,
We saw Peston’s irritation at the flouting
Of truth through bleared lines. And as
Has been reported today, everybody
Will notice. As Nicola Sturgeon condemns

Him for betraying the rules he has set.
The would-be Churchill downhills
At a staggering rate with each sentence,
But the fear is we’ll forget this as other
Ensuing events mask his mess. This man
Lied to the Queen and chased popularity’s

Message. Changing his own as he wanted
And bending so-called democracy which soon
Snapped. We’ve heard of domestic disputes
After the adulteries he was famed for.
The new Covid baby. Lapdancing bribes,
Lockdown’s trap. But the ongoing mystery

Still remains: How he has been allowed
To get away with each outrage, and engage
A man whose desire is to see us all burn
For a joke? He was elected, you’ll say.
Well, consult Al Gore on that process;
And while the voting here had no rigging

The craft had already sunk on dry moats.
His moral driftwood floated up and these
Were the scraps some clung onto, thereby
Securing a whirlpool that will take a full
River of years to revoke. When Ian Watson
Returned to the screen after the dumb

And bumbling answer was given,
Once again he was muted, by either
His own hand or the State? He can’t be
That bad at his job, as working for the BBC
Is all broadcast, so if there was a remote
Hand that stopped him, whose was the slur

That piss takes? I think of that scruffy
Scum with his file, swatting away those
Reporters. What was written within?
Not a poem. But a plan of possible extinction
Perhaps. Conceived as he strode and posed
On the battlements of Barnard Castle;

King Dom, over England, with his bland
Baron Boris stooping below.

Lords of crap.


Cumming Undone, or On Taking A Piss

by David Erdos

Suddenly, he’s a Saint and the Media are the sinners
For daring to describe the sly actions that he so
Amateurishly rebuked. The Journalist Harry Lambert
Relates how the PM’s SA once referred to said Media
As irrelevant to his purpose. With today’s slap back
Forcing Cummings to seem human - right down
To at least three descriptions of his wife Mary’s puke.

Sick of course, comes in threes, so we were forewarned
Of such stories, as told by shaggy dogs, fairies, liars,
And criminals, eh M’lud? And so he slid into sun,
As grubs will do when stones are lifted, idling his way
To a shakey canteen-like table, like a vampire seeking
Shadow in order to regain strength and blood.
A convoluted story was read with every breath

And step detailed, from house to car to somewhere
Close to Newcastle, or rather, later on, to an old one,
In order to barricade the news flood. The trouble is,
He was late, and late by thirty two minutes.
The appointed time arrived and seemed longer
Than any normal half an hour should take.
What do you think that says, Strategist?

It says to me you were writing. As I am now,
Seeking detail, or did the Number Ten
Printer break? Were you waiting for the words
That you delivered so badly? At 4.42pm you part
Stumbled, and started to improvise from the text.
You must have been rattled for sure, what with
The sudden concerns for your eyesight,

And your wife’s apparent Corona, albeit without
A hot cough; Jeez, Dom; what next? And so you
Decided to go, slipping out while the neighbours
Were dreaming about their stopped futures
And because of extreme circumstance.Which
Was what? Some pale fear that maybe you
Had it, and so had a private Doctor confirm it,

Without the needle or swab’s sweetened dance?
I’m sure I’m not getting this right. People have
Died. What exception? Which extremity fuelled
You, as you raced away, seeking north?
I’m just trying to understand, not deny.
After all, you know what happened. But we don’t.
I’m no wiser, apart from your saying that the media’s

Magic wand just distorts. You didn’t even tell your
Blonde boss when Day Fifteen saw you fit for travel.
Sorry, which day was it? When you went to seek
Shelter inside your father’s outhouse? I lost when
It was you were sick and when you went out
On your test drive. Your son would be taken care
Of by your nieces if you had to return to work,

There’s no doubt. So if you did need to return,
Undiagnosed and untested you still had to drive
Around just to measure if you could make it all
The way back to the Smoke. So you got in the car,
Which we might call a good old jalopy, to horse
Around in the country close to Castle Barnard?
Its a joke. And then of course comes the piss

That you and your son were both taking.
As a matter of fact, the boy’s urine was
A positive river of gold in the sun. Reflected in it,
You shone, having done nothing wrong. Never ever.
A child’s invocation, if ever I heard; bubblegummed.
If you prick it, it pops and sags across your face,
Pink tongue lagging, leaking wasted words

That politeness from the first two journalists
Also scored, as they failed to follow up, offering
A weak ‘OK’ at your answers, which I repeat,
Seemed tight plotted as you single spaced away
After four. Apparently, you are crucial to everything
Now. Like a God. You’re trying to sort the Science
Out, and the money. Saint Dominic and Theresa

(Mother, not May) in all of these troubled days.
You search for the Vaccine and escape, and so,
Naturally prefer shadow. Which also means, truth
Is darkness if you are as important to us as you say.
Because I thought you were an advisor, you see,
But now you’re an active force, an enabler,
An unelected selection who gets to discern

What will be. But there’s a snag, a real snag,
And this is what stokes all the anger. Like a psychopath,
You kept at it and like the emotionally remote,
Through your staring you didn’t think to say
‘I’m sorry.’ You’re allowed to care for your wife
And for your son, as well, of course. Hope they’re
Better. But the trouble is you’re undone now,

So even if you win, we will see what is being done
In our name and what sort of game you are playing.
This isn’t even about different Rulebooks.
This is about secrecy. We never know the full truth.
We know that the world over. But what it actually is
Maybe acid when someone like you starts to pee.

Dominic, Dominic, there is a world full of people
(Even if you’d like them culled). And once accused,
Guilt stays with you and receives no real clemency.
Gary Gibbon had it. He said that Johnson knew
When you did it. It just didn’t concern him,
Until the public got to know through the press.
Those damned journalists who let us be in doubt

Are not angels, but whose divine command is
To tell us what is coming our way to kill next.
We get the politicians we deserve. But we didn’t
Ask for you, did we? Well, you’re a politician now,
Wiping language. In the tissue of society’s lies
We’re the Kleenex into which you cast and cough
Each dark spit. This story may pass, or you may

Contrive other stories to blur it, but just as
Your son stained the country, so you stain it too,
With bullshit. Words hang heavy, old son and
I believe there are none that will ever assuage you.
The street where you live won’t forgive you
And neither will we, for your aims. Which you
Never unveil, as we travel down through

Your darkness. Dominic, you can’t
Rewrite this. The piss is taken now.

Pass the blame?

The Unopened University: Stay Alert, Boris!
Monday, 11 May 2020 08:08

The Unopened University: Stay Alert, Boris!

Published in Poetry

Overacting, or The Unopened University

by David Erdos

And so the Unopen University fails as its peri-pathetic
Lecturer garbles. Transmitting graphs and equations
That would set the mathematically untrigged into spin;

A series of mixed ratios equal R over the rate of dissent
Subdivided, before what is in blue times the yellow,
Can, to the power of shite, infect twins. Or some other

Nonsense that shows no clarity, only static,
As hints were leaked of announcements that would
Returns us all to clear air. Before a broadcast that singed

Everyone confused, watching. By a form of brute
Aping Churchill, with a delivery so emphatic
That it seemed to press once wild hair. ‘Stay Alert’,

He said. Where? And how for that matter.
Alert at home or out jogging now that apparently
We all can? But just as long as we’re related? I see.

Or rather I don’t. What’s the question? Are we to now
Jog with passports, or have our DNA stamped across us
As the Street Block Corona Bill tests for clans?

Those who can’t work at home can go to work,
But must bike there. So does that mean as I say
This that the Tour de London streets that were

Empty will now resemble that famous race
Through the Alps? Or will millions of builders
Now walk from one far away zone to another,

While at the same time keeping distance
From the clatter of traffic, and the greasing
Of wheels. I have doubts. I have proper visions

Now of the past as pennyfarthings crest above
Scooters. I see pony traps, horse and carriage
Crammed across Kilburn High Road. And on

The Uxbridge Road a relay from Hillingdon
Down to Acton, as frustrated plumbers
Stop and start and stop. Hope’s borrowed.

Tonight’s lecturer stunned with his lack of clarity
And false promise. It was a tease, a temptation
To make the rabbits twitch in the hutch.

Hotel owners despaired, along with restaurateurs
And pub landlords. As others had no idea
Of what happens when you have moved so far

Beyond what’s enough. Give the public what
They want is the trick, while you in fact
Give them nothing. People will not be as tidy

As you think or expect them to be. For further
Traps can be set if you encourage past
Experience as nostalgia in yet another attempt

To win over, the fact deprived who stay squeezed.
The toothpaste tube empties out, as does the piggy
Banks and the wallet. Those eager to live risk reversals

If a false start yanks their frail lead. And Scotland
Does not agree, along with Wales and Ireland.
A four nation state hung, drawn and quartered,

Along these badly sketched lines can’t be freed.
Stay Alert: More design from the slogan smeared
Cummings. Stay Alert Twats is more like it, as you

Can see the sneer as he writes, on his little
Whiteboard, or iphone, containing pictures perhaps
Of the gravestones, each empty space filled

With scribble, which is conditional, naturally.
And so the rhetoric came. And the lecture screen
Remained empty. Devoid of real information

He talked to us, liminally. Everything remained
Vague or faint despite the overarchedness
Of his acting. He was both Henry the Fluff

And a Falsestaff roaming around ruined fields.
Which he almost ‘Blaked’ or ‘Dunkirked,’

As he tried to rouse the long fallen. Who must not
Rise but keep rocking. Pass our tests to keep failing.
Numb yourselves down. That’s the deal.

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