Where colossal squid should be sluiced by the
gastric juice of this sperm whale’s gigantic gut,
they now arrive like specimens for viewing
behind clear sheets of digested greenhouse plastic,
the unassembled discards from some industrial
shore our physeter macrocephalus and link to a
prehistoric past should have glided by with its
enormous gob restrained and firmly shut.
The cachalot now dead, Jonah might have survived
in comfort had he too been consumed and fallen on
its internal fully sprung mattress, but flung from it
lands on another damaged shore with polymer
pots, ice cream tubs, hosepipes - not quite ambergris
in the making - just human crap and cheap vomit.
[The news story behind the poem, here]