Killing The Monster (For Good) (Poetry)

His is the face we all well-know
resurrected so often — too often
for any comfort or inherited fears to subside —
nerves at last left to settle

His is the wicked name we hiss
in insult — liken others
to all he represents. Even in death
he has that awful power

We think him beaten yet persist
in mentioning the monster
writing articles and endless books
perpetuating his appalling legacy

We’re told he died squalidly — in a bunker
cowering with his cronies self-poisoned
rather than take a righteous bullet
since when infamy has served him
                                        like a charm

Hatred has him ranked beyond the heroes
whose features stay unrecognised by most
the good-and-modest shrink while evil swanks its way
and the world salutes in propaganda’s horror

It’s time the monster suffered true mortality
the lid screwed down at last on memory
so no one mentions him. Every trace scratched out
the record wiped — no place however small
                                        in any human history