They’re scared of sweetened beer, their spidery wives go screwing in the bushes

assured of their descent, but even so the children born of this fucking are

usually merfolk (which renders the rut less legitimate). I’ve seen their tweets:

a migrant hid centaurs in a gypsy part of town, they write, and inspect

the colour of my iris, lost gazing at clothes I want to wear to stop being

myself, as it’s rapidly consumed by quanta of sky-blue light.

As if an extra ring can influence your capacity to convey

meaning – that’s not inherited, states Reznikoff. Under the earth

we’ll be equal, for the earth will eat us up (unearthly flagellates, diatoms,

brown algae, moths), so don’t you worry about the young fascist boy

who’s more of a spidery-merman by birth than all the rest of us, a foretaste.