Out of Mind

Where is it, if not here?
It’s not here either.
Or here. Or there. Or where you are, or is it? Is it? Is it?

I left it somewhere.
In a glass, I think.
An empty glass.

Pour it out, pour it in,
Bottoms up, chin chin.
Chink goes the glass and I feel better at last.
Here’s to you, and to me,
And the baby makes three, if there was one.
There is! I’ve shit myself and will need changing soon.
Hurry; it’s increasingly uncomfortable, you know.

Voluptuous. You’re voluptuous.
I smell. You smell too, but you smell of tasty fish. I want to taste your fish.
I smell of baby bottoms, the way they really are, not when put on public parade. No wonder that you won’t come near me.
Kiss me, don’t run away.
Kiss me, why don’t you?

I’m out of place, out of mind.
I should have been born at the turn of the last century, or fought against Napoleon, or at Agincourt.
This time is dreadful, this life is death.
We’re all dead nowadays.
Better to die on a foreign field, in a silly costume, then to patiently asphyxiate in the vacuum of our present.
Drink, and fetch another bottle, will you dear?
I’m out of mind, and out of luck.
I’m out of mind, and best forgotten.
I’m out of mind, best left that way.
I’m out of mind.
I’m Out Of Mind.

Out Of Mind is unwell.