The art of wooing is virtually dead and, instead,
what now passes for courting is nothing more than the
perfunctory and seemingly regulatory groping of the
chosen target’s body: their breasts, bottom and
a furtive hand pressed fortuitously and gratefully between
compliant and even complaisant legs, while robotic-like
tongues, darting hungrily from suction-compressed
but slobbering oral cavities, essay to bury
their way, amid the dregs of saliva, into
gaping-wide throats in a distinctly ostentatious and
supposedly intentional display of ardour. Is this what
romance has really come to? Effectively nothing
more than a spirited, concupiscent smash and grab
full of bestial emotions, but conspicuously
and sadly devoid of fine words, poetry
compliments and all the other
acknowledged forms of
civilized artistry?
© Stanley V. Collymore
22 March 2013.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem