December 12th/13th 2019

              

Rain on Polling Day suits;

God’s tears for the English,

Or, contempt flavoured,

A torrent of piss, possibly.

 

I sit in Hillingdon’s Wonder Cafe,

Representative of a country

That douses sensation with ketchup

Brewing already spent storms in the tea cup

 

Despite a desperate attempt to believe

 

That this food sets me up for the strength

To summon resistance and that I will not

Be delivered into the soured expanse of the sick.

 

The Church Booth awaits where crosses

Crucify futures and where my insipid home borough

Is sure to damn us with the brace and fervour

Of ignorant, selfish ticks.

 

But here is unhealthy food that’s well made;

Small dreams for the plate that bring comfort,

But which cannot sustain us if we are to move

Fresh and clear across days

 

That darken further still as I write,

Clouding the napkined words that hang heavy.

Dragged from the sky, the storm lowers,

As like gas in the gut, Brexit stays

 

What satisfied us before has now been placed

On the altar. We will consume the fast measure

Instead of properly contemplating the meal

That arrives dressed in choice, with the fruit

 

And flare of discernment, quietly steaming

Beside it, instead of the embers that spark

The oncoming and badly microwaved deal.

We will be removed from the fit if we go on

 

With this diet. Political cholesterol destroys us

As Johnson and  co clog veins black.

They are the fat and the tar there to block us in

And obstruct us. He and his brood, the breath

 

Squeezers that anticipate heart attack.

 

Dominic Cummings stirs spells

That would set us all on the going,

His mastery of the market is frying us all

 

Beside death. He would bring us all down,

Just for the lark and sensation,

As he pulls strings, pushes buttons

Because of their reactions and acts, we’re bereft,

 

Already bereaving ourselves as we attempt

To move through the motions

Of a so called free country that will be more

Totalitarian now than before.

 

The first path has been laid

And the mandate now given,

What ‘we’ voted for, while deluded

Has become fate’s new chore

 

As we now bare the drudge

And the debt of death coming for us,

What NHS? Die for Donald

As our souls are sold by arseholes

 

Who excrete as they speak

And bathe us all in the ordure

That flows like brown water

Filling fonts, teacups,trenches,

 

A flood of destruction

That wrongful orders

And broken prayers

 

Can’t absolve.

 

I place my mark on the form

And feel the sick anger rising;

This will be the place he will speak from,

Having fooled us all he’ll run mad

 

Across the pathetic wheatfields of May

And twenty more seasons,

Which is more than enough time to alter

The once hopeful dreams we all had.

 

They say he might soften. He won’t,

Feeling this is his birthright;

Alexander the Grating has grated us

Like soft cheese.

 

Now the nicotine yellow souls,

Starched as they are by this cancer

Of intelligence, reason, logic, and more,

Decency, will stand or fall separate

 

Just as in the popular fictions of Pullman,

Many of whose fans miss the darkness

The subversion to in his writing, and yet

For us, success solves things;

 

Success becomes fluency.

 

And we want it done,right??

.

We want our clear path to progress.

By placing our faith in the Demons,

 

Pullman’s path and point don’t compell.

His daemons protect. Ours condemn.

I watched the necromantic TV shows.

Still full with fried breakfast,

 

I watched the fat accrue through the spell

That the Exit Poll cast, by 9 O’Clock

It was certain. I sat for eight hours,

Tears wedged in the eye, horrified.

 

Bland presenters appealed,

Quoting common sense as a method,

Before in a matter of moments

It became an antique term to apprise.

 

Rachel Johnson sat there, ironic and aware

Of the posture that spoke of familial betrayal

As comedians, commentators and political shades

Harboured light. She gave a good impression

 

Of care as they criticised her foul brother,

Doing what she could to show others

How just by being there, hate burned bright.

 

The chorus revolved like old doors,

Including the weak balloon of her father,

Offending all Muslims with the carefree

Remark of the mad. Or if not the mad,

 

Then certainly the uncaring,

Who bestride the streets, seeing their streets

And anyone else as the damned.

 

For we have all thrown away

 

What chance we had with my breakfast.

The meal that has corrupted digestion

And offers the soul no excuse.

We will be the rubbish to shift

 

As the despot cleans his conscience

And all former reason placed into body bags

As refuse.

 

                         The numbers rose.

Hours fell,

 

Along with Jo Swinson.

Her breath of air passed to Jess Phillips

For whom perhaps stars align.

 

Tom Watson, sat on the Channel 4 panel

 

All night, looking like a sad Christ on the turning,

His resignation was Labour’s deflating spear

In the side. It was as if Jesus had said,

Actually, I’m going back to Wood shop.

 

His sense and counsel and Portillo’s too,

Sealed the deal.  Both speaking sense through divide

Decrying the evil compromise that’s been grafted.

Once in the celebrity sphere, former battles

 

Are immaterial now and unreal.

TV has become its own trap as we celebritise

All those on it. With all of us contained in it,

Those in the actual power plays can’t be stopped.

 

Instead we rage at the screen as the world

We knew falls by inches:

 

The length of Boris Johnson’s fat finger

 

Itching,then reaching

 

To cause first smear,

Then surrender,

Before the flicking that deigns

 

To turn us all off.

                                         

 

FRIDAY 13TH DECEMBER 2019

 

Now the superstition suits too, as the sun smiles to greet him,

Extending his hand to the Monarch as good as becomes a dark spell

That he bedevilled her with as he play pretends for permission;

Across the sundered state morals blister, which his guileless smile

Knows full well.

                                The magic we once thought was black

Has nothing to do with the Magi; the true occultists are healers

Here to revivify and contruct;

 

                                 No, now the proper evil is blue,

 

Staining all it comes close to, even the Queen with her troubles

And unrepentant son sees no end.

 

He pushes us all into mist that obscures the new jackboots

That already are coming, stamping on all who’d defend.

With contemporary politics more occult that anything Crowley

Cushioned, the new sprites that conjured

Across the night of December  12th sowed fresh Hell.

 

It was a night to consign Corbyn to flames,

That’s for certain, as his failure with the jews,

Including Marx, and blurred message

Has torn apart the new labour and the old one, too.

Nothing gelled. He was a trapped man from the start,

But being recalcitrant wins no favour.

Not in an age in which reason, such as it was, falls denied.

 

He gambled perhaps as did Gordon Brown

On a posture that would have worked in a decade

Which wore community’s badge with real pride..

Now no-one understands, or in the general sense

Looks to each other. We cast our faces down

Before Grenfell, or stop the West End’s cars

To stoke fumes.

 

Yet sense never reaches the few

Who have stolen England like apples,

Scrumped in the orchard on this day after

Rained misery, I ask why. 

The premonition stands clear.

This is worse than unlucky.

 

I see Bicycle signs as the Devil.                                 

I see an ominous brow in the sky.                      

Political heartlands, ransacked

As the flesh is wrent and wounds opened

Damnation, destruction and fashionable zombie life

Follow on. And yet there must be a chance,

As I run wild through each garden, searching for earth

To grow over the scars we have seared with this wrong?

 

Did you not understand, pathetically prejudiced England

That the old tales come to take us and the dangers too,

In this way? The legends return with the surface split,

The past rises, along with last lamentation

On this the dark and much maligned, feared Friday.

So many good people were pushed under the fast falling

 

Ladders. Were legions of actors touretting Macbeth

Inside theatres as the ballots clapped each bad tune?

Now all we feared will come to pass, cold and distant

The psychotic detach has been proved as the once

Warm fields ape the moon. That frozen feel spreads

Despite the opening sunshine. Yesterday’s rain

That continued was just the slick deceit and disguise

 

That will keep us all hid within the sour milk

Of both their bosom, and keeping: Johnson, Trump,

Mogg and the other play puppets, who, happy

And hooded seemed to have blocked all chinks of light

From our eyes.

 

                          Scotland will attempt severing

 

As England’s corrupted isle loses mooring.

Even on stilled land we’re falling,

 

Tectonically drifting,

 

With no calm horizon before us

How will light now be measured

 

And how will we enjoy Saturday?

 

I turn to the young and I look to the old

To start over. Resist superstition.

Reopen the wounds. Force your say.

 

 

 

David Erdos, December 13th 2019


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One Response to December 12th/13th 2019

  1. Cy Lester says:

    Only the emotion remains, and it is here in this poem. A noble piece of work in the tradition of Blake.

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