It might have escaped from a laboratory:
 a biological curiosity
  with the body of an octopus
   but no limbs, a pudgy
    limpid belly, jellified cheeks
     and bulging condom eyes
    with a Double Decker wrapper
   for a tongue. The flushers
  discovered its mother
 snoozing in Whitechapel’s bowels
swaddled in a blanket of fat
 a recumbent stalagmite
  of discarded wet wipes
   bringing London’s movements to a halt.

Now a gang of riveted children
 gasp at a quivering sliver
  caged behind strengthened glass
 as it spawns an army of small flies
and wonder at the perversity  
of a monstrous sculpture
carved out of our own bodies,
 a disgusting portrayal in oils
  of a terrible time of waste.