Le Grand Cyberattack

Le grand cyberattack came down from the clouds
one day when I was walking through the park
and passed by intellectuals hanging out,
reading novels and plays.
They sipped coffee, wore berets, ate baguettes.
The berets could be replaced by dark skinny jeans,
disheveled tshirts or designer sport coats
depending on what is marketed at the time
as being the look of the thinking or creative person.

Le grand cyberattack happened in between the floor
of my apartment
and was hardly noticed except by animals and
small creatures
living in an invisible world well beyond our consciousness.

TV was almost devoid of the grand cyberattack
but for the producer’s laptop computer being denied
internet service
while he was trying to purchase last minute airplane tickets
to war-torn Syria.
The effects of le grand cyberattack were unregistered
in Syria
and he eventually made it there to tell us on the television
how it really is
over there.

The future projected to me in cartoons when I was a child
was completely wiped out by le grand cyberattack.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
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Sacrifice Ye Ancestoroid

Run ‘round the rotunda brother.

Run ’round the rotunda mother.

I will bash both your heads in,
the both of you,

while you are running around the rotunda,
mother and brother
clouds do tell

the King Makers, the King Killers
lined up all around the rotunda.

You worship on both sides of morality,
worshiping, worshiping, worshiping.

Worshiping the whiteness of light
and the whiteness of stone,
the smell of mineral or concrete,
lemon scented candles,
white cotton sheets.

The Aztecs were tipped off sideways,
off into the sun.

I killed them in the Spring,
it’s like Summertime here.
My telegram to the county commissioner
standing right now by the church
said:

“O, my brother and mother are dead.
I have killed them.
In Spring it’s like Summertime here,
ten o’clock yesterday morning,
they were the walking dead,
the bait fisters . . . the bait fisters!

I’m sorry but I cannot fix this
with their knees twisted backwards, broken in time,
that bloody time
they broke with their damn bait fisting, the bait fisters
still walking, still worshiping.

It goes on in the programmatic genetics.”


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
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Destructo Market World

I’d like to invite you to war.

“War is hell,” my grandfather said.

Things are going to be on sale.

After the war
there will be volume buying power.
There will be everything.

We are fighting this war for freedom.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
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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

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
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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
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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
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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
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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

Tactic Racial Lullaby

When the twilight was falling
American soldiers took their babies.
. . . for babies must be taken . . .
Whose babies?
Where babies?
Babies gooby goo-goo?
Do people still need babies?

When the war against the Arabs started
Americans hid their babies.
This baby.
My baby.
Cannot babies live subterranean?
They are very tiny diggers.
Teensy tiny, dig, dig.

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