Hark, The Cement Factory

Hark-The-Cement-Factory

The Cement Factory
received the votes from Television
in
suspension in the air
promulgated the holy
high fructose corn syrup
in lungs
materials
combined from the fields.

The cancer research institutes
with the quotas,
pipelines from the funders
in the keep,
the blast padded walls
of the Cement Factory,
one in Siberia,
one in Oregon.
We keep watch of good
economies.
People have lined up.
The keepers of the Factory.

We turn to you Television.
We listen.
We receive The Activations.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin

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 Captor

To make services necessary;
to deliver us from evil

the capital of the superEconomy,

we lay undeterred in assumption
at night, in sleep

not withholding the shortcomings,
not to pronounce autonomous shadows

to be “the best we’ve thought up yet”

live upon a planet
and lay the thing to ruin,

the being as functionless rendered
of the luxury item as needed.

We place incense upon the capital,

or burn the images of Ganesh or of the Trinity,

watch it move across the ages,

you cannot earn money from the reasons of right and wrong.

It is in your head “the layout of the question”,

for
this
can
never
be
repeated.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

The Chances Of Imperium

The lines of America.
People lined up in perfectly ordered
queues.
Waiting politely for their turn.
Not questioning.
Not wondering,
except for quietly in their minds.
Though they believe, they have faith,
they know one day
their turn will come.
This is America.
Then they’ll die
still believing in their chances.
And their politicians will hail them,
will praise them
for their upstanding characters
and humble natures
so even from their graves
they still support these structures,
having not raised hands . . .

the spoils that the privileged
prosper,
though the great downfall eventually
of their garrisoned luxuries.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin

Faux Paella

There’s something called a faux paella.
I make it when nobody’s looking.
I take my girlfriend down to the beach.
Yeah yeah yeah.
The faux paella . . . fuh fuh fuh,
faux paella!

It sits on a window seal in a dish.
The cops on the street look up at it.
The encyclopedia doesn’t dare speak of it.
The faux paella.

Now after it’s been cooked the process is finished.
You fake what’s been done in a pan – in a pot.
The priest is restrained and also well beaten.
O holy lake of fire.
The Holy Spirit jumps up out of it.
Toss it in an oven in between breathing.
Some people spill it on the beach.
Faux paella.
Yeah yeah yeah.
Faux paella!

The police are here to arrest all of you.
Faux paella!
Oh yes, faux paella!

I gnash my teeth and bash out windows.
Oh my Lord,
not again, not in my friend’s car,
the bombs are loud, the smoke is blue.
The faux paella!

News of a new war.
The faux paella!
The economy’s not doing good.
That’s the faux paella!
Arm the national police force
with the faux paella.

The faux paella . . . fuh fuh fuh,
faux paella!

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin

Rosa For Our Feudal

Today she is working
in the sunlight of a courtyard,
bringing police officers and civil clerks
tortilla chips and soda-water.

Rosa is bringing the sunlight on trays
to her masters.

They issue dollar bills and sustenance.

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.

Los Modernos

They’re getting married.
They’re doing something that’s never done.
They’re having children.
They’re approaching pinnacles of life.

They’re buying batteries.

They’re doing what anyone can do.

They’re doing nothing.

They’re fixing food in the microwave.

They have a job.
They’re alone.
They’re sometimes cowards.
They impress management.

It’s not their fault.
They’re doing nothing.

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

Capitalism Was Designed By Hitler

I’ve gotten close to the people
who have things.
I stayed.
They left.

I’ve wanted things all my life.
Those stingers.

I got close enough inside the auditorium.
Close enough to vibration.
Yet, I still keep wanting.
My father did.
Is there any other way to live?

This is the best there is.

Things.

The other night was sacred for me,
I got close to what they have,
what I could have,
what I want.

I saw them inside the presentation hall.
What will I do next to justify myself,
to partition the unified and the endless?
Should I pour beans on a counter
and count them,
show up at a specific place and time
to do this?
Maybe I could use a computer?
I could ask for water too.
Or worship symbols, references, messages, anything.
I could give myself a name and
announce it to a mirror.

A particle can be the same in 2 places
at once,
that’s why Capitalism was designed
by Hitler,
in his image.

Because there’s nothing wrong with unlimited wealth or resources.

A particle, or a world, or even a person
can be the same in 2 places at once.