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The Dream of the Internet
you wake up blind like in so many lit scenarios
(as in a room w/in a room (as in a treasure-house of darkness))
but you’re not blind exactly & not blind drunk either
(although it’s not too dissimilar) it’s that
you cannot see the morning in front of you
’cause your eyes are still in webs
(surfeiting the dream) & they’ve been there all night
(like sinkholes with no smell among innocent
& not so innocent people (some of whom tragically died while
trying to take a selfie (some of whom needed to
ejaculate (some of whom found new personal vistas (or
sisters or misters) (some of whom went on & on
thru epic expeditions of listicles (of fad diets
(of memes (of film-blooper supercuts
(of the latest trends in intersectional social activism
(of celebrities you can’t believe look like this
now (or of celebrities who won the internet (w/ perfectly timed
tweets that summed up what most people felt
about the latest trends in intersectional social activism)))))))
& even more peeps in other rooms (some of whom
migrated there for good (or was it food?)
(some of whom claimed to have travelled back in time
from the future (some of whom whipped up
a set of avatars to be friends w/ across all social media platforms
(each w/ their own burner accounts & larger sets of
friends peddling alt news) (some of whom started a start-up
started bullying you (some of whom can’t even
but then began to like you (or the filtered holiday snaps of you)
(some of whom just needed the affect of freedom
& the cat w/ a golden gun riding a flame-breathing unicorn
(thumbing thru great blue sites awash in rainbow flags
it’s as if your eyes are in on the double dream
of spring (as if your eyes could hop from
dimension to dimension (as if your eyes are in cahoots
w/ the dream of the room w/in a room w/in a treasure-house
of lightness (wave upon wave of it))))))))))))))))
& so when you step out of bed to get dressed
(sense your way thru the mirrored door
& into your wardrobe (discovering a brand
new feeling for fashion (as you do)) step outside
thru the back of said wardrobe) you believe you can
stare straight into the sun but
it’s a black hole & it sucks you in
⟰
Occupy the Sky
it has come to our attention that you have not
paid your death for some time as a result
of the lost world you eek out or about in
we would like to offer you the app to opt back in
to the opera____s we funnelled you thru
you don’t need to run it by or around your shelves
there are underlings available to shoulder the boredom
at a discount height they can dwarf & branch
stack your aggregate in a safe haven
just say the word & we’ll pass mustard to you
pass words to you pass the castle again
thru the sky pass wind / you can occupy said Cloud again
get to know how technology works the ozone
sure l’Azur is here to stay if you don’t
pay the agreed settlement amountain by the due date
this offer is w/drawn & you will have no other hopetion
but to live your own life accordingly once
cleared funds have been received you may then (or in august)
resurrect your excess gain access to our coffers
outsource your wife pay off the dog send your kids
to Upper Echelons Inc. /// can’t settle?
call our orifice to concuss your hopetions
w/ one of our operatters & a void
any further contact w/ your account ants
About the author
Toby Fitch is poetry editor for Overland. His books include Rawshock, which won the Grace Leven Prize for Poetry 2012, Jerilderies and, most recently, The Bloomin’ Notions of Other & Beau (Vagabond Press 2016). He lives in Sydney.
