Gingerly we picked our way through the landscape of towering spikes. Though of great height, they appeared to be an organic substance, heated—baked, even—by forces beyond the wit of modern science. Rowett-Jones showed signs of agitation, and several times made feeble excuses for access to our supply of medicinal brandy; I had to be quite sharp with him. Given the cheeseblasted vista before us, however, any mind might have quailed.
The poet they probably shouldn’t have sent. I watch anime and am sometimes accused of reading books. I'm writing a long gay giant robot story in verse—probably this millennium's best yuri mecha epic poem, through lack of competition.
'Now praise those names on tombs of steel engraved | And toll this rotting country’s countless bells.'
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