Howard Firkin
We drown in Golden Syrup, amber goo;
in sticky pots of liquid fly paper
we dip our spoons and knives, our fingers, too;
as thick as porridge, nourishing as vapour—
the sweet, warm rush of empty kilojoules.
We know that nothing can go wrong, embraced
in honey folds of something that’s almost
like teenage love (without the after-taste);
we smell as fresh as morning’s buttered toast;
we shine like molten toffee as it cools.

You wouldn’t call this living—this is better—
the sugar generation knows its fate:
we’re going to die, so let’s die someone’s debtor—
they’ll clear the table when we’ve licked the plate.