wallowing in the stomach of the sad whale,
sitting on your own pruning ruins,
chewing on ice breakers to keep something in your mouth
in the blurred, silent lines between the stars and the sea.
you, driftwood-
ankle-deep in a rancid sea of blood and rusted pennies,
of floundering, tapered flesh and stained satin.
everything is a red-tainted window
in the belly of a whale, indifferent to your mutiny.
nothing is a promising salvation
in the belly of the whale, hexed by whispered curses.
write your letters, talk to yourself, splash around, know,
you are trapped
in the fickle gut
of a stubborn fish who will never swallow.
PLUTO BLOOMING 