Tom Vaughan: Love Island

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.