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hot hits

one lazy day in the softcore
summer holiday 70s,
he comes home clutching
a handful of hit parade LPs,
salvaged from a council
compulsory purchase order.

someone’s home’s suddenly
swept from under them
by multiple forms
and modernity,
seized for the sake
of the new shopping centre.
the wrecking ball of progress
smashes through their lives
and will not be denied.

mantelpiece photos,
odd bricks of lego,
and seaside souvenirs,
they leave with their memories,
and a new colour TV;
and he idly scavenges
from what’s left behind.

the scantily clad
album cover girls
pose seductively
in hot pants and
white leather boots,
or draped suggestively
over motorbikes.

bored to death with glamour,
pouting at you from the past,
their crushed velvet
deep cleavage world,
acceptable sex objects
for middle-aged married men,
their faces empty
as if their souls
had been erased
by key lights and pan-stik.