CORONA

Weaved in my lone devout melancholy

I

This is what I am and the world I made.
Nothing to it really, merely a few
molecules telling a story: The dead
have won, and now we’re coming after you.
No reason, no motive, only the quick
expropriation of your flesh, then off
before you even knew you were sick;
the wreckage of your lungs is quite enough
to see us through. The merely chemical
has taken wing; we are birds of passage,
you the air in which we move. Irony
is futile, Make me infinite is all:
truly, the medium is the message
here in my codes and coils of RNA.

II

Here in my codes and coils of RNA
you may read your future: fright and hiding,
grounded forever by the tyrrany
of numbers. The past is now receding
almost beyond recall: the holding close,
the smells of strangers and the travelling.
The mantra now is distance, lack and loss,
the world you knew is now unravelling.
Frayed and half-remembered, screens and dreams
are all you now have left of life before
lockdown. Even these memories will fade
with alcohol and bleach, in the slipstreams
and the wash of this never-ending war;
eternal repetitions, a cascade.

III

Eternal repetitions, a cascade
of death, a hailstorm out of a blue sky.
With ragged breaths we huddle in the shade
of Perspex and masks, thwart the evil eye
with bin-bag aprons and repurposed scarves.
Such is our feeble mundane bravery
before this foe, our dwindling reserves
of courage in the face of its every
assault. Clap by all means, and wash your hands
but don’t forget the many reasons why
those hands are tied and we are on our knees,
struggling to comprehend the thousands
of our dead. Still we let the poison fly,
coursing down the paths of others’ journeys.

IV

Coursing down the paths of others’ journeys,
the cull continues. Thus far, you’ve been well.
Perhaps you’ve heard a signal in the noise,
been careful, followed their advice, done all
that was requested, beaten all the odds.
Or maybe you’re immune: too young, too fit,
too not-black, not-demented, one of God’s
chosen; whatever, you’ve avoided it.
Thus far, thus far. Listen: there’s no relief
or pardon for this vigilance. Your love
remains avoidance and a masquerade;
care is still caution, tenderness a thief.
Hold back, stay contactless; be watchful of
other lives. You must learn to be afraid.

V

Other lives: you must learn to be afraid
of all of them, for who knows what they’ve done
or where they’ve been? Nowadays the watchword
is: beware. Du musst dein Leben ändern,
and not in a good way; stay alert, don’t trust
the rumours or the snake-oil, keep offline.
Shields can be lowered, bubbles can be burst,
the human all too often inhumane.
Adopt the paranoid position, cock
your gun, and watch the others in the queue.
Keep well apart, be ready to defy
the super-spreader out to pick your lock.
When faced with simple kindness, what to do?
Recoil, don’t touch, wipe everything, deny.

VI

Recoil, don’t touch, wipe everything, deny
yourself the pleasures of an old routine;
the ancien régimes of bring-and-buy,
concerts and raves, the pub, the works canteen.
Now we are counted and spaced; the waspy tape
controls our every move, shopping a chore
that takes all morning. There is no escape;
the coffee bars are shut, brunch is no more.
Of course, it’s much better than being dead,
but when will it stop, this littling of life,
in which its happiness is null and void?
What will it take to clear the addled head
of this despair while we obsess and grieve,
over and over, every simple need?

VII

Over and over, every simple need
is out of bounds as instincts are denied.
The proffered hand – the kiss, for heaven’s sake –
is now taboo and must be driven back.
Noli me tangere: now we must love
in new and difficult ways, at one remove;
in cyberspace and down the line, we deal
with FaceTime deathbeds, YouTube funerals.
This is our modern shrouding of the dead:
farewells come sheathed in plastic, last words said
with our hands pressed tightly to the windows
sealed and spattered with fatuous rainbows.
This is where it hurts, this is the true pain:
never to touch our families again.

VIII

Never to touch our families again:
ay, there’s the rub; the memories unmade
are holes in history; we are ageing
with nothing to forget. Life as a void,
unending emptiness with horror at its heart.
We watch and wait; our days are all the same,
the atoms of our selves are held apart
in wastes of irrecoverable time.
We worry over fancy new desserts,
our sourdough starters, read a book, as though
this furlough were a blessing; we embark
on something, anything, that might divert
us from the ache of boredom, but we know
a curtain has been run down, the stage dark.

IX

A curtain has been run down, the stage dark;
from symphony to solo, the music
has tailed away, the silent Meisterwerk
of Covid. We have the sound of mucus
to regale us now, the wretched face-down
gargling of the nearly-dead wheezing their
last behind screens. We listen as they drown,
try not to cough or fidget in our chairs.
No comment or critique is needed here;
the doors have closed for good without a word
of comfort or concern: we are too late.
The programme notes are absolutely clear:
there’s nothing on and no-one to be heard.
Virtue is an empty house, a long wait.

X

Virtue is an empty house, a long wait
for the blow to fall. With nowhere to run
she cowers as our blood runs cold and hot
under a steady unremitting rain
of stress. We want to be good and we try
to do our best, but it’s so fucking hard
when the bitch is in your face. Such sophistry
aside, it seems that boundaries are blurred
in the charged crucible of confinement.
We’re hopeless: no wonder we go berserk
from time to time, worried about our debt,
our futures, food, and how to pay the rent.
A new disease is coming as we squat
indoors: the steady withering of work.

XI

Indoors, the steady withering of work
chafes at the soul; there’s nothing left to do.
We’ve washed the walls and swept the patio,
decluttered, polished, whistled in the dark
as, back and forth, we pace within this cage
of our own making. This is our ennui,
our hollow time, a blanked eternity
that yawns between futility and rage.
Our idleness consumes us, eats away
at pride and purpose as we run to fat;
nothing is now too much, and so we sit
and stare, exhausted, blinded by the light,
and poleaxed by the fear of knowing that,
ready or not, the shadows multiply.

XII

Ready or not, the shadows multiply;
the game’s afoot, the hide-and-seek begins.
Test, Track ‘n’ Trace, our world-class hue and cry,
ramps up, rolls out, hits targets, saves our skins.
As if. We don’t believe them now; we’re tired
and spoiling for a fight. The sugar-rush
of grievance has possessed us; we are wired
and itch to feel the blessings of the cosh.
Outdoors, together, marching for a cause;
this is how it used to be, a world
of comrades and opponents, loves and hates.
The diktat now is politics-on-pause;
don’t rock the boat or say an angry word.
Under the sun our enemy mutates.

XIII

Under the sun, our enemy mutates.
Hidden in plain sight, moving through the crowd,
the killer finds his mark, proliferates
and passes on, leaving his toxic cloud
to suffocate and strangle. He has found
the places where we like to park our old
unwanted stock, our surplus; hangs around,
and when our backs are turned he takes his hold.
We euphemise: we call it harvesting,
brought-forward, excess or untimely death,
Do Not Resuscitate our chosen lie
to pacify the monster, draw its sting.
He knows this, as he smuggles out our breath;
silent and watching for the light to die.

XIV

Silent and watching for the light to die,
complexity has met its match; a mute
unfeeling particle of dust has put
two fingers up to our modernity.
It has us by the throat, will not let go,
has new designs upon us, further waves
of misery and mayhem up its sleeve;
perhaps our children will be next to show
the scars from isolation and abuse.
Clear-felled, slashed and burned, at last we know
the price of progress, numbered by the dead,
the cost and consequence of plunder as
the planet gasps: who is the virus now?
This is what we are and the world we made.

XV

This is what I am and the world I made,
Here in my codes and coils of RNA:
Eternal repetitions, a cascade
Coursing down the paths of others’ journeys,
Other lives. You must learn to be afraid;
Recoil, don’t touch, wipe everything, deny
Over and over every simple need,
Never to touch your families again.
A curtain has been run down, the stage dark;
Virtue is an empty house, a long wait
Indoors, the steady withering of work.
Ready or not, the shadows multiply
Under the sun; your enemies mutate,
Silent and watching for the light to die.