Drinking insecticide, to kill the spiders. It tears through
my abdomen... holes in the ceiling of the house of the child
who lives inside of me. He drinks it up, coughs it up, and
he's dying in his kitchen, lying on the floor, squirming
underneath the table. I can't see him now! Oh, it's so quiet
under his cheap fluorescent lamp. Bartender, give me
another, tend to me and to my poor little spiders. Time to
die, my little ones. Oh, my precious little ones...

By the shores of Loch Lomond, in the Forgotten Country of
Scotland, a child is buried under loose soil. He slipped and
fell, and broke his nail, and I broke mine digging his wee
grave. I swam from there to the North Sea, to Greenland,
then Redland, and to the islands at the edge of the Earth.
There, where the ocean spills into Space, they laid their
salty eggs under my skin. They hatched in Boston. By the
time I reached Kansas City, there were cobwebs across my
eyes.

What is squirming underneath the table? Oh, my stars, my
misty isles, will somebody please kill it?