Fallen Idol (Poetry)

You’re the hunky, virile God of bedrooms, Johnny,
posing on the pedestal of sex,
your altar’s posture sprung and pastel-pillowed
in scented polycotton, Comfort-fresh.

You baby-oil the flesh you have on offer,
but perfect gym-grown pecs are not enough,
however bronzed the Greek Adonis body
the doctrine that you preach is purely bluff.

Love’s not immortal and your heart is hollow —
the ecstasy you promised faded fast,
up close, it seems your world is oddly plastic —
hardly real and nothing meant to last.

It’s all a sham — this old romantic ritual —
this wooing stuff and trotting out a line —
sad converts tied devoutly to the bedpost,
believing love will save them for all time.

You are a dog, dear Johnny, not a saviour,
you cheat to feed a greedy appetite,
so here’s a bone to gnaw on in your hunger —
it took a while but I’ve just seen the light.