There is no romance in it

There is no romance in it

No love in the need of a bad boy

A fascist, a brute

With the hand on the breast

The clamp on your throat.

The familiar

Stamp of a hobnail boot

Striking the bottom stair

The hollow echo still fills the air.

There was no love in it

No lovers kiss

In a drunkards hiss

The stink of cheap beer

The bleary eye

The unwashed skin

After the backshift.

The night terrors

Mothers and fathers fighting dirty

In the kitchen

Breaking wind and plates

With all the passion of devils

Trying to open a Hellgate.

Destroying innocence

Filling hearts with the false hope

Of the undeserving

Prising the love out

With a sharp pin, the way old timers

Ate cockles.

Consigning the future to the bin

Burnt into the dirt-black bottom

Of a frying pan.

Living in the past

Is easy

When there is no hope left

For the future

Don’t tell me it is all you deserve

The pleasure that comes with pain

Is not worth its while

Deserving is more than contempt

For the simple things

When given freely

Without drama

For the love of it

With no strings attached.