The Whale

they threw money at you once, from the iced-up bow of the Mary Jane. a tourist boat full of bastards with cameras. snapping at the bulk sliding through the water. a blue dream on a day when the bottle’s half-empty. cameras clicking, oohs and fucking aahs pouring out of them.

now it’s thirty years later. I’m standing on a Norfolk beach in the rain. watching what’s left of you rot in the sand. a carcass that doesn’t move. the same gawkers come. only the sounds are quiet now. crabs crawl in and out of the eyes, sucking whatever juice is left from the dead sockets.

everything parched, stalled, waiting.

the sea gives us back.
everything ends up beached,
even you and me.