The River Primavera

Not to masturbate
for lovers long gone
I learned there that night
shooting my semen into the river.
My heart was beating.
The moon was her boobies.
She held my brow.
My semen bubbled, foamed-up,
and drifted away.
I write the Senate Commissioner’s Bill.
My penis hangs low
on the banks of the Potomac.
I’m an inside traitor.
The cattail wavers. I go away
through the darkness
commissioned in
the last century.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
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The Billionaire’s Pastiche

Riot. Riot. Riots.

They have built a mountain out of
symbols.

A net, a web, a pedagogy of
controls.

Who was this man?
Who are the high-excluded,
the killers of the four Kennedys?
These star controllers
with patents and chipsets,
electrodes and diodes,
combines
colluding the genetic flora genomes,

oh, a far off quota
hidden in iron mountains under
different ultraviolet spectrums.

For we must be altered
so they there,
so they there can live.
Remember the Agora!
Remember the Forum!

But the riot. Riot. Riots
could stop this
if words could meet them
on the other side of the electrical
divide,
beyond the spell of electrical devices,

in their hearts out in the streets.

The Riots . . . The Great Rejection.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

The Satellite’s Purpose

What has to stop
for the satellites to quit doing
what they do?
What knows its own fate
and realizes its own consciousness?

What is beamed by the satellites?
What is lost?

What constructs the Universe’s reverberances?
What reverberates in your heart right now?
Your head being a reverberate point
between the bouncing ions
and the colors that are sequenced.

The Satellite God speaks to you.
It does what it will.
And the jugs of sweet tea are on sale,
the jugs of sweet tea are on sale.
You have a vacation coming up soon.
What has to take place for the vacations
to quit happening?

What has to walk towards What?
In What direction,
towards What place,
What family meeting area,
for What purpose?

The satellite’s purpose is a vector field
or something similar,

something we have yet to fully understand.

You cannot plow a vector field,

only be the resultant of its trajectory or not.

Getting something from the cupboard,
go get something from the cupboard.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Memes Of The Basic

I am on a planet.

I eat the godbrains here.
And believe them.

You’re far across the Universe.

You know,
in a giant greenhouse somewhere,
on a different planet,
I am eating the godbrains.
Hiding in the back of a little shed,
tucked into a corner of the greenhouse.
There, I work on the computers,
the receptors and the generators,
the ones the agency transported there,
the Delacroix 5 and the Destructor 12.

The Destructor 12 was very important
in the run up to the end.
We’ve now gone shy on parts for it.

We’ll look for those parts past the dunes,
just where the grass stops growing
and the sand cliffs begin.
The sunset burns into the hues of
the horizon
on this planet
where the merchants sell
computers to make this stuff.

Door To The Sky

And while you were sleeping,
the door to the sky
came open.

While you
negotiated your job title,
watched television,
paid on your mortgage,
went down to the store.

The door to the sky.
The door to the sky!
. . . Made many people wealthy
as they colluded with the
pontificates of being,
shipping your dreams and
your genetics
off to the arching, elliptical sky.

Off The Farm

When I am old,
hysterical and worn out,
running from the farm,

just shoot me in the head.

Don’t let me get off the farm.

When you’re done with the shooting of me
in the head
shoot me in the throat
to stop my soul.

Have a dinner for me that night,
back on the farm,
with red wine, root vegetables
and some type of roasted pheasant.

Don’t let me get off the farm,
even if you have to throw rocks
on my chest
to keep the gravity held down and balanced.
Don’t let me get off the farm.

The gravity and the farm are old friends,
synonymous in a way with each other.

Gravity’s high-volume generation farm
exists in the asteroid fields just beyond Mars.

DO
NOT
LET ME
GET THAT FAR
in the symbolism of intellectualism.

The Whispering Star

From the CIA’s poor planetary
management
we rise
From the movements in October
first drawn in window panes
we rise
within Detroit
From the codes of the Widow
then passed onto these ions
we rise
We wake we rise
in Calcutta
in Nebraska
in Santiago, then Ultima Thule

We rise from what is unformed
for the whispering star of night

James, I know not what I’ve done

Our Romanticism

The moons in trident,
werewolves in lingerie,
the New World is coming,
the New World is coming.

The big metal machines,
the plastic little molds,
they’re pumping them out,
the big metal machines,
the plastic little molds.

I asked you to come to a log cabin,
the place in a green Oregon forest,
but this was a vacation in retrospect,
a vacation for Two Thousand Ten.

There under three moons
General Electric® hid forever.
A United States Military hiding-cavern,
pine needles on the forest floor.

You taking them out,
you smashing their heads,
Mossacio’s screaming descendants,
Adam and Eve,
smashing their heads.

On the stones in a pine forest,
the River Clackamas down below.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
from:
antipoémus thumbnail image Antipoémus (poetry book)