Excerpt from “filth-scape,” a manuscript of poetry by Thomas (Ted) Rees:
The Fence Dream
Goes like this: God is a burglar rob you straight out of the womb. Yes, God is a burglar rob you straight out of the womb. Oh, God is a burglar rob you out too soon and drops you on a wide boulevard. Air is full of money, collapsing coarseness. The new agora strokes your nipples and laces its fingers through your belt loops. Resulting constancy of blue balls drives the pursuit of plasticity, solace. You walk, electricity caresses every step, blink, a new sensation of blankness. As touch screens don’t touch back. Visibility is created by wallet thickness and frequency of use, so no one can see your body as you meander. Burgled of corporeality, you sense a smile on your unseeable visage. Beyond the city, another, never-wavering polis of compulsory paper-shuffling, turning in on itself. Praise the world’s pollyanna for gifting you, unseen. See.
This week’s playlist…