Ishmael, the Simp
No more my splintered heart and maddened hand
were turned against the wolfish world
Do I dare sleep aside this tall harpooner?
From what vile hole has he come
below the throbbing and heaving sea
His body is something I’d like to describe for you
This is a thing which carries more of true terror
Does shit disgust us by
evoking the primal fear of death
or is shit just gross?
Or is shit just one more thing we can’t control,
hopeless tasks like finding a single creature in
this whole wide world, whale or whaleman
to consume and be consumed
bulging through the oysters
full tilt rushing headlong and tossed?
The heart interferes with the translation
and I intend to feel it all
—Clark Bucko
Illustration by Jeffrey Roche