Poems and Texts

from A TEXT CALLED HOW by Ted Rees

from A Text Called How

To figure goggles dense enough to shield the corneas from afternoon sun’s reflection off the high-rises.

There are mucked pillows exploded on every street corner.

The fences are altered every few years to be taller, more repellent and fashionable in materials.

A grassy lot’s meaning changes according to its geographical situation.

Here it is all regarding a tradition carried forth that is erasure commingled with dense pandering thickets of naming.

Decay can contain its most unsettling moments in its repurposing, which is why it is a level of pornography.

Our breaths are lost and heaving in the small, lime-strewn creases which form the boundaries here.

Finance’s thalliform will not concern itself with hundreds of candles or its complicity in their too-occasional eruption on sidewalks.

An exception can ever be found if one strolls in a manner befitting an overcast morning.

The latest is driving refuse to a place of childish colors enclosing a digital portfolio complex.

Experiences in the sublimity of karesansui demand an individual with nimble fingers and lock-picking proficiency.

Inevitably, more compounds arrive daily, buttressed against secure parking.

To wash brick surfaces is a stupid undertaking.

He often bleeds as vomit trickles then pools in freshly-manicured sapling boxes.

One can stop in the street and hardly imagine the decibel level of what was viaduct.

Ted Rees

Ted Rees’ recent work has appeared in Asphodel, The Drunken Boat blog, Elderly, and Armed Cell, with work forthcoming in Tripwire and ON Contemporary Practice’s monograph on New Narrative. Chapbooks include The New Anchorage (Mondo Bummer, 2014) and Outlaws Drift in Every Vehicle of Thought (Trafficker Press, 2013).

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