Oh, how they fell
We smiled and propped them up for photos
Could there be anything worse? Lonely at the end. Hoping for senility.
Those bastards who, purely for their own ego, take pleasure in shooting big game animals.
I hope they struggle with good memory.
Just good enough to remember the smell of rifle oil, the sound of the bolt sliding then snapping down tight.
The kick in the shoulder from heavy grain and the nostril drift of cordite.
The slumping death.
But a memory confused by age, where the trophy pictures shudder in their frames.
Beasts scream and contort above their starched care home sheets.
Shit from fear clumping around their bed, smeared over the dead battery remote.
Glory a regret.
The old heartstopper
Trophy hunting from the G plan
outside magnolia skies ablaze.
Gone the rhino, gone the days
of the hero.
Creaking at home
the remote, the prize.
Shattered the frames
from the final shells
Propped up and pillowed
and photographed.
Shuffled on sticks
mane long lost, eyes grey, memory just.
Buckled the knees
clouds the dust.
As one fell
in full charge,
the other slumped
in piss and disgrace
King of the care home
TE