Love After Isolation

You live with it,
you sleep with it.
It’s your computer.

You take it to the shed,
there is wood and wood to chop,
your computer sits in front of
a can of turpentine.

The grass grows tall outside,
you are at a farm in Texas.

O Penthius!
Penth Fist!
our world is made of bone and air!

The sun shines in through the window
onto your computer.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

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

Turn To The Land

Let us turn to the land.
You and me.
You.
From this pollution.
The purpose of humans.
Turn. Turn. Turn to the land.
Or abandon the pollen fallen
from willows.
At night the stars show
then in day still burning.
We refute such odd existence.
Being but not yearning.
So turn as a plow turns,
turn as the leaf turns,
turn as the tree turns.
Turn from the rock, bone,
threshed into soil.
Turn. Turn. Turn to the land.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
from:
Humble,Humble Love thumbnail image  Humble, Humble Love (poetry book)

Memes Of The Basic

I am on a planet.

I eat the godbrains here.
And believe them.

You’re far across the Universe.

You know,
in a giant greenhouse somewhere,
on a different planet,
I am eating the godbrains.
Hiding in the back of a little shed,
tucked into a corner of the greenhouse.
There, I work on the computers,
the receptors and the generators,
the ones the agency transported there,
the Delacroix 5 and the Destructor 12.

The Destructor 12 was very important
in the run up to the end.
We’ve now gone shy on parts for it.

We’ll look for those parts past the dunes,
just where the grass stops growing
and the sand cliffs begin.
The sunset burns into the hues of
the horizon
on this planet
where the merchants sell
computers to make this stuff.

Krixba Star

Fruit in the night
by my solitary self
is freedom
the nationed ones cannot know

the nationed ones look to windows
to know
counting through filters
what one is to be told

revive the baptisms of the satellites

the nationless does know
the fruit in the night
and
what love can spell

how love knows to hold bones
or tell them
the truth of
what home is

A Place Of Resistance

I went to seek out a place of resistance,
but naught did the grasses lay,
for the buffalo roamed and roamed
under stars for the ages
where the sky sheltered their freedom.

Then drove the human in cars and
diesels by road
over a summer eve’s gale of storm.

Stopping and staring, pointing and
glaring, the grasses and flowers and
trees were no more,
replaced by warehouses, chain stores,
and matters of volume,

from the age of the gods a new era
was born.

We sit in our homes.
Our forebears vanquished.
No questions for
the origin of words and intentions.

The stars no longer wave with the hay.
The humans are no longer made of the
stars.