The Thing

A night tide expels it, leaves it wallowing. Salt has blistered, nippers gnawed. The carcass tumbles. Tattered flesh flaps, bone snaggles bone. A figure emerges, as if a mangled person was escaping the weakening clutch of tentacled coils. Waves lap at the lolling mound, cavities rupture, gas bubbles take luminous shape. A figure emerges, hatching from rancid offal, it stumbles toward the lights of a village. Remains hang together clothing a riddled form. Strips of denuded meat drag behind. It is famished, even though its belly is a bladder of corruption, still, it is hungry. It sees the warmly lit tavern, imagines a sweet fried fish on a skillet, a glass of strong ale waiting for the touch of its macerated lips. It had been a long swim.