Men snort
then hock brackish phlegm lumps
into the upsurging spume.
Pink as truck-packed swine
they wheeze and squeal -
the ropes of their bodies tightening.
The chant lacks lust
swallows more strength than it lends:
One... two... three... heave!
and their boots cleave trenches
in sea-dark sand
as they tilt shoulders,
press gloved hands
to the perspex sheen
of the mammal bulk.
Black blood gouts
crimped gaps in the molluscs
crusting its grey belly.
It does not yield.
