Monday, 28 June 2021 14:27

Hancock's Least Half Hour

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in Poetry
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Hancock's Least Half Hour

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.

Read 339 times Last modified on Tuesday, 06 July 2021 13:26
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.