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.  

Burning Boris
Thursday, 07 July 2022 14:37

Burning Boris

Published in Poetry

Burning Boris

by David Erdos

Burn, then, as we have burned under you!
Spurn yourself! End your era! And let defamation
Trump your own infamy. For just as Kenneth Williams
Cried in the film Carry On Cleo, we all have it in for you,
Bore-is, or as was. Be not free

To do what thou wilt, clear a la Crowley,
A true black magician who had more command
Of his spells. And who at least safeguarded a flame
Unlike the one you have fanned, borne of hatred.
So as you descend then please do so

Down a boulevard straight to Hell.
So that you no longer besmirch the byways
And highways of England, as you once cavorted
And stained Oxbridge halls, even as you claw on,
Filling cabinets you should empty, a blown,

Bloated squatter, expelling squits past brass balls.
It is reported that fifty rats flew your ship, yet still
You stamped through dark water. Hoisting what was left
Of your ark to foam oceans that could only spit as you walked.
What you have allowed is simply the underlining of Thatcher

Who once sank British sailors, I hear her wretched refrains
When you talk, albeit with less fluency, as you make an oil slick
Of language. And you a former editor! Shameful. You do not
Have the words, just the cheek, as you try to take charge
Of a world turning to crumbling biscuit about you.

Bull in a China shop doesn’t catch you, as you rupture air
When you speak and lie open-mouthed, your heart and mind
Closed but ransacked by your lust for power and for some
Desperate frau’s nippled peak. I despise you, of course.
As has been seen in these poems. But then when you were

Elected your own sister appeared on TV. On Channel 4’s
Sad attempt to satirise and to capture the charm of Peter Cook
And Co. They’d have had you. They’d have shown the shit
At your seat. And still you won’t go. Is it another ploy,
Resignation? Do you hope or plan a new crisis on a wider stage

Until then? Michael Gove has been sacked. Back to Middle Earth,
Gimpy Gollum, along with Richi, but what riches now to defend?
Will they have you back on quiz shows, and say that all is forgiven,
Or will you populate the far places that those in disrepute
Duly prowl? Under college pal Cameron’s soft rock, or wherever

Kevin Spacey finds safe harbour. Is there a club, or cave
To protect you? Will you worship Bohemian Grove’s jungle owl?
You will feather your nest with stolen swans, and plucked eagles.
Crushed doves will be pate for you to spread on your toast.
Or you will publish your book and make the next million,

In the sick society you have symptomed you will refresh
While we roast. How do you sleep? Was Lennon’s hurtful song
To McCartney. But that came from the anger of the dream
They shared falling fowl. But I will still quote those words
And fire them at you. You praised the mandate you were given

To lie and falsely smile while I scowl. Seeing it all as your right
You praise the fact that ‘our brilliant and Darwinian system
Will bring about a new leader’ as if being Tory PM was a birthright,
That contained natural life. And while you may be a beast,
You are not noble, just savage. To me, a man alone, it’s a horror

That you have had even one choice of wife. So, let’s see
If your current Lady Macbeth who has not unsexed for gall
Remains with you, now that shadows call you, let alone
A ghost’s knife. I have my suspicions of course, as this is not
A faithful age. You have shown that. What you are is a roadblock

To the particular path of the free. Will it open now?
There’s scant hope. But then who will replace you. Someone
Moderate? Man, I doubt it. For this is where the blue
Becomes black. And the right-wing hardliners demand a somewhat
Desperate direction, leaving the left to plan progress

And to shine once more through the slack. For today,
I rejoice. But you will still be there tomorrow.
Burn, bore. I bridle. But what life now gains
May you lack. Do not re-emerge. Be as a submarine, Boris.
Seek only the depths that define you. I hound you down
To hellfire. And as your ship starts sinking and the waters rise

Truth attacks.

Volodymr Vladimir
Thursday, 10 March 2022 14:33

Volodymr Vladimir

Published in Poetry

Volodymr Vladimir

by David Erdos

I never thought I would put the words Robert Rinder
In one of these poems, but when he wrote of Zelensky
In the Evening Standard, eyes bright – the story

Struck hard, as did Zelensky’s piano rendition
Of Hava Nagila for Rinder, not to mention his role
As light’s leader when pitted against Putin’s night.

As with Vaclav Havel before, moving from dissident
To President, free of fiction, Volodymr Zelensky
Has shown how the world we once deemed real

Is absurd as he turns the fanciful tale of his self-
Penned and self-starring sitcom into an option
In which actual talent trumps power with a legitimate

Win for the word. Now the entertainer he was
And the appeal he engendered emboldens
The Ukrainian nation to feature in this new play;

Which is one of survival, sustained across
A continuing horror series, where the episode
Book (trade name: Bible) starts trying to plot

Better ways to make the protagonist show
That he and they are the heroes in a world at war
And a country that wishes to invoke different days.

And so the sitcom stands up to cold eyed aggression
And evil, and to an antagonist altered by just too much
Tyranny. As Putin performs his own maligned epic,

His own moustacheless version of Stalin to make
The Public Number One Enemy. Not just to Ukraine
But to the world as we know it, as so many institutions

And system turns Russia back to the time detailed
In the first films of Tarkovsky, in which Andrei Rublev
Saw hardships for which even the starkness of Stalker

Or Gogol’s Dead Souls could make free. Today, though
Koba The Dread can’t hold a handle to Putin. Who seems
To move through this madness with a psychopath’s lack

Of care. It is the worst kind of plot, belonging no doubt
To a shit-com, or some late night B-Movie in which
Both standards and sense have been dared.

In America not too long ago there was a rash of
What if we had the right leaders type films,
Or TV series: Dave. Clear and Present Danger.

The West Wing. The American President. Designated
Survivor, before House of Cards toppled both expectation
And what representation itself could achieve. There was

A gaping void these shows filled. They were candy, not
For kids, but for adults, convincing folk while boxsetting
That everything beyond remained free. Putin has shown

It was not in this worthless expression of power,
While Zelensky, a writer from the other side of page
Sagas on. He may get to be a legend one day,

A statue of course in the making, blowing out both
Breath and colour before a future voice sings his song.
What will they sing of Putin? Perhaps the soundtrack

Sneers they gave Hitler. Does he have one ball? Is he
Sleeping and who could now take him out? Only
The men who are employed to protect him. As he

Attends to his mistress and his baby boys, does he
Doubt? Or even think. Certainly that lizard look
Keeps all secrets. As Volodymr emotes, he is fighting;

Not so Vladimir; who watches his world as it burns
Both in Kyiv and in Moscow. As Zelensky becomes
Luke Skywalker, Putin pours what’s left of his soul

Into Vader. But how does one hero win against
A world’s fear? The sitcom as such is a slice of life
In this country. In fact, in all countries they have

More or less, the same scheme. It purports to show
Life as it is being lived by its people and it attempts
Through the comic to reveal tragedy. Tom Good

Lost his job. Basil Fawlty falls into a breakdown.
Steptoe can’t leave father, and even the sense stung
Larry David can’t bask. But as fate casts its net

To fry us all this one actor mirrors his equivalent’s
Motives even if they exist at all, or stay masked
To show that the dream to make a change can still

Happen. You just have to get through the fire.
But then that’s the thing about fire. There is no-one
To turn to and not even a convenient God you can ask.

And so they fight on as we think of them, daily.
That sitcom becomes every story. We just have to
Write it well, that’s the task.

Partygate Watergate
Sunday, 30 January 2022 09:57

Partygate Watergate

Published in Poetry

Partygate Watergate

by David Erdos

Imagine a PM so desperate to retain his poor powers
That he disguises the despot behind the teapot on your own
Breakfast tray. A man who will do anything to preserve
The mask he has shown us, and through the holes of which
He blows vapours more foul smelling and toxic than any
From the gas or napalm bombs of past days.

A man who messily spreads sense across the morning toast
Like bad butter; mould at this mouth like the mushrooms
Found at the heart of the wood; and who will do all he can
To fit the totalitarian taste to all flavours; a man without
Morals, or any true concern for the good. The Sue Gray
Report is on its way and thickly redacted.

Behind the scenes, Civil Servants and Governmental
Marker pens tippex truth. As it is likely that what Gray
Has found will soon be dressed in false colours. As with
Joseph’s famous coat, the PM as Peacock will preen
And parade to distract us; one beady eye on the gallows
And one, with blood in it directed towards the next

Polling Booth. Johnson surely has Nixon nixed as Kuenessberg
And co. tell the story. He is the fat boy at his birthday,
Trying to eat all the cake. And make sure of course that nobody
Plays with the presents that he has already stolen. Forget what
Was served there, or eaten; we should put that porcine prick
To the stake, and watch him flambe as falsity’s fats fry and crackle.

From his vituperations come verses that I wish as sharp as knives,
Or Hell’s flame, to ask you, England: how much more can you swallow?
As we might as well all have attended the party that Carrie created –
or was said to create - in Dom’s name. After he’d gone. But let’s not
Make Dominic Cummings the Martyr. Instead, let’s for God’s sake
And surely our own, oust this oaf, who squats in Whitehall,

Souring the milk of human kindness each minute, while the blue decay
Of disorder eats into your own morning loaf. He will worm his way
Out Of this; that is the fear that keeps forming. Its not even about
his position, But about what he represents: the depravity and design
Of those who seek or believe that they deserve to control us.
Which is in itself a contagion for which there is no cure forthcoming

And no visible line of defence. Do him down. Pull the chair before
He sits back and keeps eating. Find a fresh party, free of all this.
Swallow sense. G. Gordon Liddy became a US celebrity years later.
And at the end of the life Oswald Moseley appeared on British
Television Talk Shows. But, now to be clear, we must try to exile
Latent evil. Blow the buffoon past all orbits. or send him

To the Island that Priti once prized. Make live ghosts.
But will we? Will they? That is the question. But Hamlet
Was never a hero; he was always a doomed, damaged boy at Mum’s
Door. Johnson sees himself as Prince Hal, but he’s more Richard III;
Without presence. Or he’s a Caliban, for whom pity should be
Denied. Make that law. And as we do, reveal what’s been broken.

Statute. Reputation. And the souls, fates and heartbeats of those
Who are now six feet below his fouled floor.

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.