Thatcher’s Children

In this city of pain

I have wasted my days

In stumbling from life

To life to death,

Burnt out on the altar

Of Higher Good

With unanswered prayers

Clouding every breath.

The world grows cold,

The streets grow cold

As life and liberty

And love are sold,

Transmuting base metal

Into base metal

With nothing to show

For the Passion of days

Spent fruitlessly searching

For some way out

And I confess

I have grave doubts

That anybody warms themself

In my blaze.


When the Passion is over

I shall walk on the beach

Stained with love’s shame

With the prints of defeat.



The Grey Man

Says “Hey, man-

Can’t we all be

Peaceful and caring

and sharing and free?”

-a question beneath contempt

to those such as we;

us and the rest

and the Powers That Be.


We are Thatcher’s children,

There is no escape

We are tools of the murder

And mayhem and rap

Fighting these battles

That were lost long ago

And now the horror-

The thing is they know.

They know we are wearing ourselves away

To be empty receptacles,

Hollow and grey.


The machinery of defeat

Needs fuel to run it

Just as each mountain

Must have its own summit

Just as they need

To keep our lives bland,

We are cannon fodder

Eating out of their hand.


We don’t shit where we eat

But we eat what they shit

And we lap up each soundbite,

Each hawking of spit

From the jaws of the drooling

Politic consensus

Who claim the right of

In Loci Parentis



Yet there is Good in Evil

And Evil in Good.


And their Good is Evil,

Shows nothing but contempt

For the lives we have led

And the dreams we have dreamt

Of a world of pure beings,

Contented and free.

Have you dreamt this dream also

Or is it just me?


This dream of a choice

between colour and grey.

It’s your choice to join them,

Or say, “Fuck it”

And walk away.


Note: I wrote this poem in early 1991. As a recent school leaver, I had little hope in the government, economy or British Establishment in offering opportunities for anybody, much less the young. This really wasn’t a popular view at the time, at least among the comfortable middle classes of South Warwickshire. I, however, was on the dole, penniless, miserable and stranded at Bank Cottage, Wixford.

When my father and his cuntslut second wife read the poem, they angrily denounced me for writing such disgusting socialist claptrap and tore the paper up in front of me (they were both drunk at the time).

I recently found the scraps in a container in my sister’s garage and have pieced it together as best I can.  Some sections are missing, indicated as […]. Hopefully, something fitting will come to me so I can complete the piece.

I still stand by the political message expressed and feel history has vindicated my view of things- that the Elite couldn’t give a fuck about anyone but themselves and people are living in an elite-created false reality.

In 1992, my father came round to my viewpoint when a sudden hike in interest rates (Black Wednesday) left him massively exposed on huge business loans. His business partner disappeared, leaving dad with all the debts.

He stood to lose everything he had ever worked for and hit the bottle hard. He finally drank himself to death in 1997.

My cuntslut “stepmother” then threw me out of the family home, setting in motion many years of random and bizarre life experience that would never have happened had the comfortable middle class prosperity I had been sold as my future actually panned out as promised.

I truly feel for all those who are losing or have lost all they struggled to achieve, thanks to the ‘new normal’ of permanent economic slump and openly corrupt leadership.

If you find your way of life is slipping out from under your feet, through little fault of your own, then you have my every sympathy. I fully understand how difficult it can be to not go under. All I can offer is this:

Whatever doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger. Or maybe sleep until 3.30 in the afternoon.


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