Four poems by Peter Wyton


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.


…………………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.



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.


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.

Three poems by Peter Wyton

UNTIL THE SMIRKS ARE WIPED FROM MEN’S FACES                                    


On social media, a video
showing nervous teenage Indian girls,
disembarking from a bus to take part
in a demonstration condemning rape,
speedily surrounded by teenage boys,
smirking, every last one of them smirking,
keen to tease with irrelevant debate. 

“Do you think it’s all right,” bellows their spokesman,
“for a girl to go to a cinema
with a boy not of her own family?”
Chorus of approval from his buddies,
still smirking, pressing ever closer.

“Is it right,” counters one girl, defiantly,
“for rape to occur in any circumstance,
even at the hands of a relative?”

“It doesn’t happen like that,” bawl the boys,
widening those smirks, shoving nearer yet,
not admitting that it DOES happen,
as they won’t, neither here in India,
or in countless societies worldwide
where the masculine sex is conditioned
to act according to its own urges,
while the feminine sex is brought up
to accept violation and sometimes
to take the blame for its consequences.
Until the smirks are wiped from men’s faces                         
and replaced, unimaginably, by smiles,
we will not address the root of this evil.


A STRANGER TO ROMANCE                                     Andrea Dworkin, 1946 – 2005.


‘Much abused radical feminist who condemned pornography and dismissed men as mere cretins.’

                                                                                    Daily Telegraph obituary



DEAD MEN DON’T RAPE, the caption read above her desk.
Implacable in dungarees and double chins,
she found it irresistible to take the risk
of alienating liberals, upright citizens,
obdurate feminists or almost any radical
who might have rallied to her combative colours.
Porn-brokers wished her to the hottest depths of hell.
Difficult to assess if these manly fellows
hated her most for her views, or her corpulence.
Surprisingly soft-spoken, for a virago.
A friend to the abused. A stranger to romance.
She abhorred chauvinism. She had reason to.




Complaints are surfacing in the country sports press that partridges are becoming too heavy or lazy to fly fast and high enough to suit the requirements of shooting parties.


So a rich fat prat in a deer-stalker hat
Finds it terribly upsetting,
When he goes to the trouble of getting
His lard-arse out of doors,
In voluminous plus-fours,
Only to find (what a frightful bind)
That the partridge he aches to slaughter,
Won’t fly as fast as it oughter
And he fails to find it funny,
When he’s paid a pile of money,
That a well-fed turd of a thankless bird
Should be so disinclined
To provide some fun for a chap with a gun.

Oh dear, what a shame, never mind.

The War Memorial for Women by Peter Wyton

How many male joggers, out exercising one evening
along a canal towpath, or at the wooded extremity
of a public park, find themselves suddenly confronted
by a ferret-faced female, wielding a switchblade?

How many boyfriends, having kissed their fiancées
goodnight at a garden gate, will walk home alone,
entering an ill-lit underpass only to come face to face
with a sweaty thug of a woman, reeking of beer?

How many inoffensive, lightly clad lads will be set upon
in tower block stair-wells, or awaiting public transport,
by jeering assemblies of belligerent bitches
fighting one another to be first in the gang-bang queue?

How many violated, mutilated masculine corpses
will end up dumped in lay-byes or neglected cemeteries,
hastily sand-covered at a remote golf course bunker
or discovered by dog-walkers in tangled undergrowth?

The war memorial for women has not yet been built.
No cairn nor shrine nor plaque nor cenotaph could cope
with all the names of casualties killed in combat
against an enemy with only one thing on his mind.