Bodice-rippers and breathiness,

soaked-through-shirts and silent obsession

bordering on stalkerish, till we reach a cathartic confession,

and may we just swap

out that crafted wit

for the elusive expressiveness of a bitten bottom lip?

Let me just stress this,

as a truth universally accepted,

we’re not having anything less than

completely-expected-unexpected love which hangs on

a thrown-out glance pulling us into a trance.

As their hands meet and linger in the one compulsory dance,  

leaving us spinning as their chests keep heaving,

hold that thought, hold that breath, hold that frame on pause

while I finish my wank,

and thank the immortalised image on the £5 note

that she wrote something timeless-

-Even though it might not have ever, or never will, exist.

That’s what I want:

escapist blissfulness, long gowns,

conflict may arise,

but it can be no surprise that the closing scene

must always and has always been

a musical score which climaxes as they kiss.

And, as long as this society is consumerist,

I really must insist

that it’s best just to fulfil my wish.

So, don’t challenge me.

You’re defacing a legacy,

while you’re replacing my jealousy

with sympathy

Couples with no more longevity

than a catfish Tinder date pre-puberty.

Please yourself with narratives of realism,

but the appeal of them has a shelf life.

The marriage plot doesn’t ask a lot,

and I’m sure it’s a be all

and certainly end all.

"I will not be begging for a second season"

There is sense and sensuality

in conformity.

If you frustrate me,

I will not be begging for a second season.

I am the watching masses,

and I can switch to Netflix,

for my quick fix.

So, just give me a reason!

I’m not saying creativity is dead,

that experimenting can’t seep into mainstream,

just maybe stay away from primetime-

why not try BBC3 instead..?