affection

The cosily twee world of sugary sweet

(but cheating) sentimentality gives rise to a pack

of lies, in cloying proclamations of abiding

bridal love. It featured in what I expected.

Direct experience reveals another tale,

when I fail to find the kind of girl who might ever

endeavour to blend with (and belong to) someone so primly

immature as myself. So could it endure?

Purity is a tin of worms, which (when opened)

plops on the table top its treasured possession,

festering a sickness in the pit of my stomach at this

disillusioning destruction of youthful ideals.

Romance must lose its status as sublime,

with kisses smearing salivated slime.