Four poems by Peter Wyton

ANGER MANAGEMENT

The thing about anger management is
that the angry manage it very well.
It’s about them getting what they want now
and the rest of us all can go to hell.
I’m sorry. I’m being over-simplistic.
There’s much more to it than that, I see,
as I run like hell from the righteous wrath
of the anger management industry.

ATTENTION SPAN

…………………Missed infancy.
Leastways, I don’t remember it.
No power of recall from the womb,
pram flashbacks, nipples full of nectar.

……………………………Missed nursery school.
Too poor and lived too rural.
No building blocks or kindergarten games.
I had free with bog-roll inserts.                              

……………………………………….Missed puberty.
Me knackers dropped. I never noticed.
All of a sudden, little wiry hairs
came hurtling out all round me plonker.

…………………………………………….Missed kissing.
Zoe Grimes from Home Farm said
she’d teach me if I gave her ten pence.
Chewed me lips. They bled for ages.
……………………………………………………..Missed sex. Too busy
having kids. The wife enjoyed it,
well she said she did, but I got headaches
every time we switched the bedroom light off.
………………………………………………………………………..Missed middle age.
Went straight into senility. Some days
I nearly can’t remember where the pub is.
It’s been a funny life, or so they tell me.

 

BIG GAME HUNTER

Pictured in a Sunday Times magazine double page spread

He is everybody’s archetypal he-man
from his muscled torso and grizzled chin,
mandatory cigarette clenched in pursed lips,
to the tips of workmanlike fingers cradling
a state-of-the-art, high-powered rifle which
he has just used to such devastating effect.
What unbelievably ferocious, ravening beast
has this latter-day Herne, this Nimrod,
Orion, Davy Crockett or Buffalo Bill Cody
stalked through the African bush, utilising
every inch of cover the terrain affords,
each leaf of foliage offered by conniving nature?
A giraffe. Consider the near lunatic courage
of this California-based trauma surgeon,
defiantly facing the tallest thing on earth,
which seeks to lure him into a false sense
of security by nibbling treetops, prior to
lowering its hideously long neck, and charging.
He could have set his sights on easier prey,
a koala bear, for instance, a three toed sloth,
a marmoset, a pygmy jerboa, a dugong,
but no, an alpha male has to do what
an alpha male has to do, so he thought,
“The hell with it,” and went straight for that giraffe.

EASY PICKINGS

If shits who shoot beasts just for fun were shot back at,
The heavy weapon wielders might at least think twice.
It’s sad that our few remaining wild animals
Are hunted down, by these tosspot thrill seekers, nice
And protected, surrounded by guides or keepers,
Secure in their hides with a bottle of whiskey,
Camouflaged and cossetted by their underlings,
Carefully protected from anything risky,
All leading up to the shot at a point-blank range,
Followed by the joyful dash to be photographed,
One foot on the carcass, exhilarated grin
On fatuous features, the mandatory daft
Rush to get it worldwide across the internet,
The stupid brute skinned to take home, placed
Prominently on the living room wall, beside
More representations of Braveheart, the two-faced
Mummy’s boy, in his defining moment of glory,
The evidence on permanent exhibition,
The species one further step along the road to
Inevitable, irresponsible extinction.
Let’s outlaw the world-wide safari racket.

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