10 Jan 2012

A pre-epitaph for Margaret Thatcher

There's a Hollywood film star on the radio, talking about her! There's a new film about her, and a lot of talk by press and politicians, about that. There's lot of talk in the media and social media, about whether she should have a state funeral or not. There's a lot of talk about what she deserves. Talking about her like she's dead already!
So I have joined in, with this pre-epitaph:

Hers is the ongoing shove in the gutter
by the silk-gloved hand.
Hers are trades laid waste and traditions forbidden:
summer solstice truncheoned
and the blunt end of policies bludgeoning
multi-cultures into monochrome.

She is the ghost of Christmas Sparse;
of State parsimonious, with a piss-up for the rich,
who have pocketed railways and utilities,
Champagne Charlies stacking up shares
and coked-up stockbrokers who stoked up fares.

She is the stroker of big erect missiles
tossed off for a profit and Falkland spoils,
for a special relationship with oil,
blazed then paved the road to Basra
with chemical-charcoaled remnants of the dead.

She is the Class-thug, a struggle-monger,
the rot in the heartwood of nation’s oak,
who choked the life-blood of industry,
a kiss-arse collaborator with poverty,
a cutter-up of communities,
unpicker of Unions’ unity, scab by scab by scab.

She is an aborter of level playing fields,
a Gollum of unborn chances
who danced with Fascist petty-princes,
thankless for values once hard-won in trenches,
or Humanity’s respect for itself.

And Mammon’s mama still feeds Babylon’s bankers,
spreads the legacy of her milky snatch
through apologist policies
and a heritage of Frankenstein sons.
And a nation debates when her death will come –
and how to dispose of the corpse.