The scandal bag spilled its belly on the foreshore

filling the sand with foam, bile, grabba, and

a plastic film that suffocated

tamarind seeds studded with sugar.

It was a black jellyfish swimming in streams of squid ink,

propelled forward in a constant propulsion

of passive energy recapture,

chased by cords of fibrin and

streams of semen

ejaculated across a cloudy night sky.
It was gelatinous,

inflated by global warming,

a hydrostatic skeleton holding up

canals filled with cilia,

filaments flexing,

lobes, lappets, Viagra,

a manubrium fucking

mouth sucking

anus with umbrella shaped bells, balls,

tentacles with stinging cells and testicles.
Swimming with other scandal bags,

vast blooms in warm waters,

vessels, tangled ghost nets

clogging ship engines.
The scandal bag was without a respiratory,

circulatory

or central nervous system.

It was without color television, air-conditioning,

wifi or superannuation.
It was an all-seeing ocellus,

splitting itself in half, and half, and half again

in infinite fission,

until the sea was full of its proteins, collagen,

petroleum, ammonia, anxiety,

and depression.