Whale Feed



Whales to be flensed are aligned.


Lighting a cigarette, the gas

clerk, equidistant

from valve to register, recalled the scene: Everydaypolis.       


B flickers apart, the glitters

in his eye undiminished.                                 (I).

                        Gasoline pumps as he prays:

Maserati: orange and expensive things.


On the dial, B holsters a tune—

reverberate with steel, a twang

from the submarine.


Blood oozes from smooth

skin, the pilot whale’s

muscles now (I) exposed and divvied

by blackened fingernails, those

who know dime and oceanic acreages.


Air in the tube: 0.75 cents.


Paddle in grainy pavement

around edges of the strip—calculate

the trajectory of dead kelp.




Monotones are harbored

in yellows, a mixology


for strokes of resin, stale

waves rebound—sallow


lights that submit—


daubs by a sponge offer          horizontal


continuity and a daybreak to the bizarre.


Get Islands.


“The Dolphin is a creature that carrieth a loving affection not only

to man, but also to musicke: delighted he is

with harmonie in song, but especially with the sound of the water

instrument, or such kind of pipes.”


B gazes at the burnt match

of a mutual sun—proceed,

blink, and groove deeper with stereo-

wavelets then right-


click to undo drifting

polyhedrons, A tangerine edited.


tank-top on my bae fits.

Looking good you sparkle like Y, like

sunset wetness on the waves.


This could be a movie.


Flukes emerge, a monument

jutting in the scene—scarred


by an invisible splash—

boundaries are grasped only while drowning.




A jilted lover tangles in the fish net—

another night of neglect

painted, seared:

apartment on the winch—


braced to violence—five blocks


from XYz school. You’re just an S-hater

you wish you had a nice ass 2 and B’s done


with [Y] get over it. Blurbs

crawl on flatscreens

divided across five states: equidistant.


Get me a dollar scratch-off, hon.


Everydaypolis— (I)                boardwalk. Day-

dreams in pastels of

pinwheels that swirl, held


over sand by a child scanning

for invisible whales.


People are strewn

about the beach, their colors

snagged from tropical fish.

Omg like his tattoos make him


look badass, like he doesn’t need her

she be hating and hold

him back. I luv you B.


Sip liquids and sweat them out.




Glossy coverings have slipped

down S' thigh, bringing

lights and inhalations; our ribs rise

beneath flushed skin—minds pour—the curious moray waits.


S maps the estuary, for us, the mental

rhythms of thrust—a dull blade. S sings

for us, dresses for us, understands us.


We buy a wedge of her flesh

on a disk: measured: we grind.


There is a price. Remember tea time?


A courtyard rimmed by chestnut

foliage, murmurs in rivulets of sun,

exposure, a sip of tea—bitter.


She, the dock of the

mind; we’ll have more tourists in time.






A pinprick of blood roils the waves, measured

by the pixels and blurred: (quota)

one pilot whale, a calf                                                                

orphaned to the system


of song: Ph balance, microorganisms,

and the scaly blue:


systems shuffle in paperwork

caught beneath elevator musicke—profits

divided by a single loss—loan,


an echo from the gaff on the gun-

wale. S waves

to the crowd.



An orange vest bobs—

I was commenting

on my opinion. And you didn't

need to comment back. You can’t

even spelbytch.  Translucent—a jellyfish troll.


Alone, a self-thickness, dark as whale blood, B

wets his fingertips to cake the hull


of four walls and three meals.




Smell Ga, milky white emerges

over barnacles of doubt—neon

strobes striate

the ocean, the black

mega-screen: Ga nurses all—

glistening bodies crest to musicke.


Ga's fingers extend, upwards they hook

towards the desert,

barbed towards the moon

over mountain peaks in another sea

reflecting a moon drained.


You have conceived by holding your breath, the

schism of new mountains—harmonie

unfolds, nonetheless.


“As soon as the baby is born the mother gently

pushes it towards the surface

where, as soon as the blowhole breaks the surface

and reaches the air, it takes its first

breath. The companion

females take great interest.”


Fossils in the hill’s inner sea quiver

awaiting touch—subdivisions.




Underwater, death distorts—

in reflection—statistics beep               (I).


Coupon: for 20% off with the purchase of a second

item bought after the first

is bought for the regular price. Canned whale


meat is marked and silent and stacked

under fluorescence. Discount

flesh with a tagline. B knows and Y knows cuz she


need him to buy expensive clothes and keep her stylish and famous;

if it was not for B she would be


nowhere. Find your desk. In

alphabetical order, in a row

all lined up, take your colored

sticker facing forward.


“The muscles or red meat of a whale are very dark

in color because they contain a great

quantity of myoglobin, a substance with great

affinity for oxygen and resembling the hemoglobin.”


Those on sale can leave, or can they?




B, the lantern boy, stands over oily vestibules of carcass

slick on butcher’s wax—

the papier-mâché of deck and the below—


a small, but bulbous eye of a dead whale

lolls—a souvenir

that conjures pursuit of self. #hashtag


We offered ambergris, ivory, and spermaceti,


then played cutthroat in the cargo hold.

Shallows were

illumed by a lamp; his

piece of flesh intimates with a lonely ghost.




Seaward, miles and miles are diced into millimeters: broadcasting

wavelengths where algae blooms,

testaments to Ga's’ existence:


rheum and blood

of the venue, a classroom

mixed with sand; (I) Know it.


S tastes it, and electro-plankton filters through baleen;

S mouths the future with a ruby O,

a place without coral. S diffuses

it: we perspire



Green sea glass holds the beyond:                  a seawall.


People of Hometown come, some grimace.




Minnows nibble the hairs of whalers on leave; they wade


under a cerulean wink—a forgotten

coconut— corners of

a tropical postcard transcribe   awe.


B mulls the genus or branch of the rhizome to claim

or own; he lets others to sift alone.


He carries a tune: song that is bathed in musicke, soaked

in harmonie and siphoned efforts from oil

ablaze in a cove of

blood. Ceremony of no

sense, tentacles

weave into moral flosses          but       left to drift      us.


Make a password that is easily forgotten, a covenant

to hack, to cleave from flesh;

remember the first

time you saw a whale,

yourself, the mirrored grins splayed, (I) on


unpicked bones.




Land sharks to the shiny brochures, a voyage

scrunched in credits by youth

impressed by an endless beat—Successpolis.


In a kelp forest the radio entangles—lost fishing lines

redden the old notes peek-a-booing

from behind the crags—dip your fingers in coolness

for a discount.


Man, but, how much?


It is just an aquarium, don’t fret

about the hair-trigger anchor thingy

waiting to plummet to an endless depth at any (fucking) moment.

The mechanics of this contraption are very interesting, but don’t bother

trying to understand it.


Hold the chain, man.


See, the chain fits snug around your ankle.

You won’t notice the adjusted

bill, the anchor, a month-to-month lifestyle.


After salivating,

dab your lips with a napkin,

and remember there is a free, deep-sea diver

figurine to be included in every deal.


Y, she took a selfie of her booty man

if the money would be fresh

I’d have me something like that, for real

not just an aspic, but real real like B.


Routinepolis—the neighborhood has submerged again.



There are no sidewalks in the ocean.


Depth, fragmentation, and debris—detritus:

scab of coconut and flesh, kelp

appendages once broken

to our surface needs, sediments of

microplastics—netting tossed in the murk.


A silent mass—no musicke, an empty catch.


Drift: migration to

latent islands (I).         Husks—tradition has it, man.


The glitter of wavelets: there, self-

i.e.       Ga       fragments of reflect-

ion, as one dorsal in the pod

rises for a glimpse.


Ga is proud as a black sky upon a black sea; wind

brushes the figurehead; she

creates internal harmonie to clear; spoken of,

our clouds tuck in past seams.


Con-temp, your whaleboat under the blanket

slides, scrolling within

a screen: updates—city docks


profiled in absence, an outline in the tumble of tide, yet

you are caught in stale


lamplight alone and harbored.



The groan of a breeching whale, harpooned.


B breathes for us,

sharpening the spades—brine

of biography: the sallow knaves, the restless.


Night classes in self-

preservation linger on—spermaceti. Cut a spiral groove, indebted to—

rights. A box of all purpose

unscented candles: (1/200th- $4.04 = X)


Chrysanthemums: in port

for those at sea—corks

make measure of the underneath.


Crew: on the deck to draw portraits (I):


Piffle: pink: Our functional curriculum

puts you in real-world problem-solving situations.

Piffle: lavender: Many of our students

find that they are able.

Piffle: canary yellow: Networking opportunities

help prepare them for the next step.


Colors of the macaw

cover pale bodies sacrificed on the beach.

An old boozer, leathered,

gazes seaward as she collects bottles


emptied of liquid,

tossed in the breeze without regrets—

leftover moments: fins of

broken links.


As of now, your bookmark is lost in a cloud of krill: letters,


an autobiography

swirled by anchors dipping,

dripping with spray paint


from brick canvases: buildings: institutions:

we feed

off the boilers: vat:


mouth of Everydaypolis.


“In 1715 Nantucket had six sloops engaged in this fishery

producing oil to the value of 1,200

pounds sterling.”


“M. de Denonville writes to M. de Seignelay, in 1690, that Canadians

are adroit at whaling.”


Mix and match these scraps


for recipes of inclusion, yet the pods

have absconded

and this link has expired.




An abalone palette, S'posture, an outlet:

webcam on a feed, slinking—

nude for her whalers, an image emits.


Wigs, a bra unhooked, and thongs: offerings to

the whalebone, brushes of space

nestled in her brow—splashed


intervals of cyber ads, the shallow sea

of the equidistant.


Payment options: online, discount slivers

you are

to object?


Subscription rates may vary and are subject to change.




B interprets wavelets and spins them into musicke:

saxophone in

background setting     number seven: a covenant

remix of rebirth—


the whales’ songs can be heard for miles and miles and miles,

a symphony rising,

often inaudible, unsaid.


Quadraphonic: sound, leveled from the basement, an invisible sea—

catch a (I) carcass adrift,

turn the amp—snare the eager’s conversion to

sentience, Dr. can this be?


All said, all aboard. Body mechanics.


Pentaphonic: Sir, profits have fallen,

pyrotechnics have become boring

and so much blood fills the bottom

of your lungs, the soul, the sails, and the sweeping wave.


Hum: still, sinking in stale rhythm—as if always

was the number of your herd. Refer others

 for a reference bonus (the 500

dollars can go only towards your tuition).


Education for the everyday individual.


musicke is divvied up in shares of pleasure—

price check, the special


humps are hidden in obscurity, by clever

couture, measured, you were, for a single



I heard she like to listen to B, and man

this is a bummer cuz I like to listen to Ga.




Buy my brand, I am independent.


If submerged,              (I)


know why you are under-


water and what put you there.


A fleece, bluish as the overcast ocean, its depths obsidian

and made of whale-skin—

you look suave in this material,

perhaps you could own it one day, to be


a buyer of coral, to line your swimming pool

with little mosaics

of fishies. The filter sucks and flip-flops

prance on the seaboard—pools

form in each backyard.


Whale-skin, some are born into it,

Some hawk fish scales: imitations piecemeal, and chum

of the previous amateur. (I) Peer into the mirror;

conceive the tailored whale-suit.


In and out: breath: salt :sniff :air :water:


sign here for your packaged deal,

an education discounted

by cubic feet, the compression of possibility (a free T-shirt).


“Because of its greater

content of histidine, which is essential

to the growth of the human body, we should pay much more

attention to the whale

meat as a source of food.”


Dear captain, why do we all have the same treasure

map and discount slacks? Place

your photo in the right-hand corner.




Y, in the, for profit’s

marginalia, an epoch dipped in salt, in jet-

black coffee, on the plan: Routine-

polis, of commuter. News-


paper clippings manage

wonders in preservation of an ethic— a sal-mon gutted,

filleted on an oar for a king.


From her canoe, a sliver of whale tongue has bled,

Y, in her stroke, gives a thrust of her arm

to the waves, garlands

now bobbing, ripping away—her face on the silver


screen of history restored.

If each bill is paid on time, then payments

will diminish

by five dollars every six months. This institution

produces a workforce.


For-profit has made us measured: re:

coil of the school—factory: ed:


a lure of Traditionpolis only

impressed by the star charts: opt:


piscine, cetacean, your finger is pointing past               (I)

the bus stop.




Buoyancy settles within a glass tank

for the young mothers

moored to place, cityscapes.


In pre-school (I) discovered

cerulean, tangerine, and razzmatazz—

an ocean, was drawn and left in a drawer to grow

wild and squiggly.


But today, this artifact, a fluke, is

scanned and photo-shopped;

enhancing one’s brightness


through technology is a premium opportunity.

Redrawn—wisteria, your dolphin hidden


in blue ringed violence—in the sky

you saw yourself,

wedges of blubber—opportunity

cut by a low whir from the propeller—needs.


“The rest of the school is very apt to follow

the unfortunate ones and ‘commit suicide’ by apparently


deliberately swimming ashore. It is possible

that the stranded ones

make distress signals

to the others, who.” A hometown


requiem, but B's musicke

is here and S' too, they

reverberate with the flesh, the wood, the frame

as you adjust your bottom in the seat,

rowboat of                  Somedaypolis—


suburbia for the filtered,

profit from labor has been called good.



Stare out along the wavering line

where waves made of cubes

form and reform, and this is

pierced by pelicans


from broken shores, along the tide,

where coral tumbles out, white and washed:


your fingers transformed

once, let to settle and reemerge as a lapping memory—

to sign here, so

again pieces spread out.


Between your toes, collect shells,

the cacophony of other-ed hesitations are

receding back to the whale.

And look at what she be wearing,


make that hustle honey,


but don’t forget where you came from.

The synthesis of foreground and the membrane,

earth and sea, the Lichen begot

Ga—a phantom limb that holds us and whale;

this bough and that beach eroded—

the darkest whale is inside out.                       (I)


Interpretation, after all the forms have been filled out,

yet the rhizome remains


adrift: a vessel pumping

oil, with the harpooner

skimming for a whale to B's musicke—radio


wavelets seek an eclipse, sculpting boredom.


We wish to dilute the pilot,

the whale, in Routinepolis

hither thither and elsewhere.


It’s been a pleasure, sir.




Whale fossils dally in the desert with the charred


remains of an explosive harpoon—

methods of the corral. Floating


factories are squeezed into the—giving answer

and commerce—strip malls: dubbed over and over.


Try to learn a sailor’s knots—

financing, broken routes—flip-toss the net to find patterns upon patterns in


crumbled boulevards that rock in the wake.

Glued to the ocean and shore, the dial-

tone is equidistant with

swishes heard, meant for others.

Still, there is a lot of blood.


Indent one line or another.


Indent on one line or another.


Make the waves into a straight line.


Whale watching, an eco-

friendly puree from a swivel

chair. Polis—

the curdled blood on your brioche is


swirled and making records. Throb, the temple sells

wanton-hope on every block.


Hone the blades

in accordance to profile.


B's tracks are off the map,                  a few blocks away;


Y lives there and S lives         here.


Ga send a single, one of us,                (I) the pilot.



Copyright: Ian Rice @ ianrice.xyz