Happily Horizontal

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.