Only natural

Your skin is cold, my dear,
To the touch of my manicured fingers;
Your silicone-enhanced curves unreal,
Stiff as sea-waves, frozen in a moment.

Your hair is blonde, my dear,
The hue of summer wheat, permanently waving
In the air-conditioned breeze;
Bottle-born, fading,
With the hiss of a hundred showers.

Your face is blank, my dear,
As, helpless, I am driven
To lay down at your feet
My artificial heart.


Martin Locock, 1984