Bells of Tolrileum

The Bells of Tolrileum
I heard during torture,
the marketization, rule systems,
and subjugation
of
people.
The unfreedoms.
The magik. Symbology.

I remember the lost civilizations

          the Way of the Queens

          the days of learning and courage

          introspection with molecules.

I heard the Bells of Tolrileum.

Now
others are hearing.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Throwing Burgers

We’ll throw some burgers
on the grill That’s what
large scale manufacturing
affords us on this Friday
evening for us Throwing
pattied piles of ground up cows
to celebrate Our kids swimming
’round the pool with chlorine
and bovine fecal matter
floating ’round their blood
for later permutations of
congressmen To refrain their
handiwork with the agriculture
companies We are the normal
people We are the normal
people We feed our children
what business people and
government officials attain
in their single way of $ucce$$
and configure We worship
the Beast


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Abercrombie & Fitch Equations

We’re here
on the outside
close to clean air.
The green, blue, and gray air.
The beige tones in between.
The air of reds and greens
and browns in the colder
times of year.
The shifting things you want;
we’ve got them.
We shift them.
We shift you.
You want luxury, vacations,
wealth, and freedom.

We’ve got you.
You’re in our eyes;

your hope, your money.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Autonomies Not Spoke

It is the night of the Prix-et South.
Women all over the city
get together and have sex
in groups of five.
The fifth woman being in linear with Saturn,
her legs spread
with the left knee pointing to Pentheus
and the right one pointing to Intortium.
Here
is placed the thrown of the tongue
and
lifts them all into liberation.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Purported, The Magic

I look through the doorway
into the next room.

There are billion stars between me
and that next room.

Things and ways that I do not see.

But I’m a human being on Earth,
I know everything I know
because of my senses.
I trust them.
They’re efficient.
They’re logical.
They’re accurate.

I am righteous
and if I’m not, then I can rely on
the consciousness of others and
words written in scripture.

I can persecute.

Though lest I know not,
I do not see these billion stars
between me and the next room,

the wooden floor
that extends out in linear perspective,
the ports of time,
there, away from me
in the silence of the dark house
at night.

Emilia, But Death

How can I not distaste the grass?
The toilet house built for the solitary traveler
on the road from Napoli to Messina,
the dust kicking up its memories of bones,
my sandals of cow-leather
flavored with the apprehensions of the slaughterhouse,
the retreat of a slave girl from her owner
to the East, the Ionian Sea,
across the plains, up to Olympus,
to track down Jove, to kick his fucking ass.

My Daughter As An Isolated Island

As a daughter I will make her isolate,

stern,

I will make her as St Kilda

so that no government, ideology
or
paradigm of oppression may enslave her.

The approach to the sea will only be defined
by her hours,
her journey into the light and mist
and back again,

whatever blue skies she shall scatter,
shall be scattered.

Whatever buckets of rain are brought,
the buckets shall be loved
in storm and sunshine.

We will kiss the mossen land

and this will be her kingdom in the new
epoch of Man.

Thus all ideologies fall and the
cult of the Moloch,
the cult of masculine insecurities withers

. . . there, on the outskirts of islands.

Philistine Mathematic

Christ + Missy = Chrissy.
She’s outside the building right now,
behind it.
Chrissy has a couple powers,

being made from Christ and Missy.

Chrissy . . . Chrissy . . . Chrissy.

She’s smoking a cigarette.
Don’t tell Missy.
Christ will be mad.
Christ doesn’t get mad.
Verily I say unto you,
Chrissy comes from the crossing of
Christ and Missy.

Was that Christ or Missy speaking?
That was Christ again,
popping up out of Chrissy,
the telepathic hologram thingy.

Chrissy just put
her cigarette out in the flowers.

Chrissy!

She walked back inside the portable building.

Chrissy . . . Chrissy . . . Chrissy.

Is Chrissy the one who named her dog Steven?

Steven better get back over here.
He’s gone across the property line.

The neighbor’s calling.

Chrissy, you left Steven outside again.

He’s gone across the property line.