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On an island in the sun
perfect bodies preen and stun.
Why question what’s between the ears
of those with sculpted breasts or rears?

They walk about so sparsely dressed
we risk a cardiac arrest.
They wander in and out of love:
we vote for who should get the shove.

One-after-one, on screen, alone,
on and on and on they drone
as though in a processional
secular confessional.

It’s all extremely titillating
and sets the nation’s hearts vibrating.
The night’s a row of double-beds
like boarding school for newly-weds

but with one bedroom set apart
for two the rest think might kick-start
if given greater privacy
(from them, but not CCTV . . .)

If it’s a metaphor, for what?
Are they real people? I hope not.
But if they are, then maybe – dammit –
it’s me who’s from another planet.