Mycelial Person

Mycelial Person was like surrendering into an almost familiar environment; with only a whisper’s guide at my ear, only a collection of spores touching at my hand - like something gooey tracking through the pages.

I’ve never smelled so much in a book.

It doggedly searched for unnoticed, unseen, forgotten patterns, whose shapes rose gently and fell. But it oozed with acceptance: giving away and away and away, each gift collecting and condensing into the making of the story itself.

This book is a mushroom of love.

— Irene Lee

Spore Radical

I wanted to become a mushroom.


I put an ad on Craigslist.


“Will you help me build a mushroom hat in exchange for a palm-reading?”


I made it explicit that there was no budget for this and all I had to offer was this divinatory reading, which I taught myself when I was fourteen because my mother was a witch with a pendulum and I had a heightened sensitivity for the effect of stories on hands and faces.


I didn’t think much of it and would’ve felt lucky to hear back from even just one.


22 people replied.







some mushrooms


                                             in the dark to

                                                        lure insects

                                                                  attracted to light

                                will crawl                         such as firefly or flylarvae

   who                                                between

                                                 round         round         round

              over                      under                            the twinkling mushroom

                                                           &                 &

                                                  in search

                                              of                               a

                                              luminous lover

                                    until they             realise that


                                               it’s just a mushroom

                                at this point             their little feet

                                               are covered in

                                microscopic              spores


which the fly will                                                           spread in service of the


                                 fungus                       oh…








At the time I became lovers with my friend but it was very CASUAL meaning that she was very casual about it and I was very much in love with her.


I tried to console myself by by obsessing over the plant person from my local plant shop. I found out sun sign, pronouns and hobbies through eavesdropping on other customers.


The Plant Person, Scorpio, they/them, dancer, always wore tank tops that revealed a tattoo of the Little Prince. Sometimes the little Prince cried droplets of sweat and I came to discern The Plant Person’s scent as it mingled with the lucky bambo and the tiny palm tress. All I wanted that summer was to get a better glimpse at the inside of the Plant Person’s palm and let the lines condensed into their skin reveal to us that these hands were, yes, wrinkly from the water, fragrant from the dirt but that these hands were also made to want me on a deep and intimate level.


Outside, the streets were creamy with micro milky ways as birds were still shitting on pavements and people were still talking about the weather like they had nothing to do with it.

Florae filling w/holes



Close your eyes. You are surrounded by the ocean of the motorway.

Down by York street there is a subway stop, where no one seems to care.


Upon entering you had to mark yourself as either top or bottom

and I admired the sense of certainty that my companion brought to

our brief relationship : “I want this,” she had said to me, waist high

in my kitchen. “I want this,” she had said to all the condiments of a

food truck. “I want this,” she now told the leathered butch with the

wristbands. I am terrible at decisions and asked if it was possible to

get both, trying to sound like I didn’t care. Inside people were

fucking one another in shadowy enclaves, some chained onto

latex-cushioned tables, others wriggling around like worms,

gleeful in the mud that was a basement of downtown Brooklyn. I

expected a force beyond my consciousness to lead me into a

constellation of bodies, naturally revealing the language of my

desire. Instead, I saw someone I knew from a conference in Rhode

Island. We made polite small-talk while a very small, masc-

presenting person got whipped by a femme teddy bear on a table.

It was nice                                          as I am crouching by the weed a woman approaches and asks

to watch                                             me whether I am visiting and these grow EVERYWHERE, but

how in this                                         she likes the colours, they remind her of spring, do I like it here? 


the masculinity of the person had nothing to do with insertion,

nothing to do with dominance. “How is it going” “Have you found

somewhere to live in the city” “I still have that sculpture” Sighing.

We turned to look at the climaxing Teddy. “Hey, it was good to see

you,” said my friend. “You, too.” “Take care.” I went to the

toilette and googled signs that you are a top, including, but not

limited to loving to be the big spoon. I preferred forks so this

wasn’t helpful. “Perhaps we are mystified by versatility,” someone

suggested in the commentary section, “because there is no hetero-

trope built onto it,” and I took notes as light flickered on and off. 

two lines from the poem that read: "one another" and "making, break and origin changing". The words "origin" and "changing" overlap.

Weedy Tender



you step

from the bus

into artemisia

she is moist

and carries

the scent of


pointed leaves

she listens


into your

respiratory system

silvery undersides

armpit hair

and small purple flowers

how you remember

                                     women                                      i miss the smell

is how you remember                                             of trees

the concrete                                                                of pulpy eyelash

lamenting                                                                     in the spring

last season’s            lametta

entangled in her

curb side