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?