Pinch Me If You’re Feeling Frisky, Or So Out Of This World You Could Cry

There’s seaweed on the stairwell.
Where the pregnant belly gives a sermon
From the gurning mouth of her forced C-section.
Gasping to explain the contemporary art behind cosmological mole mapping,
Ending up belching burnt plastic and post-truth.
Sinews of their pleas drooling down onto binded feet.
Unable to reach the top of the bannister.

Pews pasted to the walls are all vacant.
For the self portraits have been drafted from their frames
To a new all inclusive lunar colony,
Where rococo sentiments have never been more in.
Mosaics of lump and gut never making the gallery,
Which matters very little now.
The future of history cares not for anyone,
Devoutly, it’ll limp on regardless.

A newborn demagogue dangling from her gash,
Makes his way to the peak instead.
She takes the swollen opportunity to keel over and die.
His fat incompetence upholstered by her waning everything,
Emancipated by the silence of woodworm and rising water.
A home grown burgeoning for our tedious infancy.

Stretch marks found on the baby’s brain
Mirror sand dunes on the surface of mars.
An astrological symbiosis inseminated
Before the mother could even
Remove their trousers.
Pinch me if you’re feeling frisky,
Or so out of this world you could cry.

Surely some cosmic, comedy club urinal
Deep out in the peripheral,
Is taking the piss out of the leper parade
We find ourselves unknowingly attending.
Our skin is putrid, ourselves revolting,
Unassuming to the death crop,
To its lurch blossoming from carbonated bile.
You, bruising your knees for a sliver of everything,
As the stench of seaweed grows slightly stronger.

_{Louis Schofield, England.}