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 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