Happily
Horizontal.
The two-faced sun
beams down generously, sensuously
caressing the welcoming brown backs ,
warming them through,
embracing the beach-bare bodies
in its deathly,
golden heat.
dangerously inviting the
multi-coloured lesion
of death and
destruction.
Piglet- pink people
from Pontyrhywbeth,
their milk-white
cellulite burning and tingling,
mingling unhappily with the sleek and glossy,
candy flossy
good-timers, expert tanners
and poolside piranhas.
From the Gatwick flight, no doubt.
Long-limbed
loveliness
contrasts cruelly with awkward lumpiness.
Minx-toed Mirandas
wearing next-to-naughty nothing
teeter tantilisingly
close to the edge of the pool,
watched with an
explosive blend of seething envy
and lust, by
roly-poly Rhians and Wyns with
wandering eyes
who long to be part of that cosmic
world of Clinique, Clarins
and orgasmic
salt-rub exfoliating peels, seaweed wraps and
Jimmy Choo high
heels.
But remain on their
Dunelm towels,
happily horizontal, monumental mounds of
slow-cooked flesh.
Scorching nicely.
Posh, patronising
accents cut through the air like polished darts,
home counties donkeys
braying in the sun;
important,
opinionated, loud and expensive,
lead crystal laughter
tinkling and irritating
the invisible pale
plumpies lying nearby.
Who do they think
they are, mun?
Dripping with
jewellery, glistening with glitzy gold,
these Seven Oaks
sisters sparkle and dazzle,
watched by the Bont
gang who are dressed to thrill
in Littlewoods’
lycra,
swiftly reddening,
burnt to a frazzle.
But filled with
gumption, grit and godliness.
