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 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
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

The Twelve Antiquities

Hierarchal Order

Rulers

Dominion

Eloquent Poetry

Penises

Non-Inquisitive Loyalty

Subservitude

Individual Wealth

My-Way-Or-The-Highway

Narrative

Symbolic Order

Ownership Of Resources


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

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

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

A Winter At Valley Forge

We took drugs,
we charged on the military.

The military filed reports
saying
“you can’t charge on the military.”

The President filed reports
stating
there was a new war against the military.

CNN covered stories exonerating
War Machines.

It was opened a
Henry Kissinger School for Diplomacy.

It was a four for one sale, Margaret.

We loosened our diapers and
played with our doo-doo.

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

The 20th Century (Still Upon Us)

I found myself looking for people
when
the world had locked them away
and privatized them.

Put them in beige boxes to do
their work everyday from
eight a.m. to five o’clock p.m.

Placed them in orderly housing,
turned on the TV for them to
stare into and
handed them bills and mortgages
to adhere to.

Driving their Ford trucks and Chevy’s.

I looked in the forests,
over grasslands,
under real skies, clean air,
with the ancestral stars at night.

I looked and no one was there,
learning the anthem of the cosmos,

the form
of the human
that is being,

the kind of consciousness suspended
in time.

No,
I looked and they were watching TV.

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)

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.

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.