You wear logos.
The wearing of logos
makes you
feel good.
It makes you who you are.
You are the person
wearing logos
with meaning.
Your meaning is
to be a person and
to wear logos,
to wear the marks of
corporations.
Corporations are
people too.
You give them a voice.
They speak through you.
In your sacred moments here.
Corporations are
sacred too.
If they are not… then why are they?
Tag: corporatism
Learned how to be a “valuable” worker
in a free-market economy.
Also learned to be a “team player”.
Did not learn to reject
the free-market economy
because that upsets
everyone else
still stuck
in the sham show shit scam mess.
This has a 99.9% chance
of being your postscript.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
When I was impoverished
in the multiple different ways
did you mean
what it is to eat
in the restaurant chains
the role playing tourists
the people who have aunts and uncles
the specialized drinks
the unnaturalized offspring
the séances walked backwards
to be holding the dead
in the waiting area spilled fajita meat
was picked up
by
a person
with
back
problems
now, the séances walk forward
the superchurches are peopled
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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 W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
The door to my room
looks like it goes somewhere,
to a land of opportunity maybe,
to a corridor leading into outer space?
The light of my room
is a day
under which
isolated men lay scattered on islands and beaches.
Their skin and my skin,
it is more different here than the planet the women live on,
the all-exuding sun! the all-exuding sun!
it is more different here than the planet the women live on.
There are 50,000 islands between me and the next man,
languages as vast as the stars
that we mutter to the mercantile winds,
tears that no other civilization will know.
We beat our heads with rocks
as we stand on our islands looking out to sea.
The light of my room is a solitary place I dwell.
Would you call this existing in an atmosphere
of phosphorescent glowing
. . . a body of penis and beard and prison?
It is appearance.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
You bring me bones,
I cannot walk.
You have the hours,
I don’t deserve time.
It is nothing anymore,
there in that cheap
apartment building,
my father has a moustache,
he smeared SpaghettiOs
on the walls.
We live in a giant daycare nursery
built for the entire world.
My flesh is not as good
as the muscles that hold your
back.
On Monday
I’m boarding a space cruiser
for the land of opportunity.
You have the hours,
I don’t deserve time.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
This is called the Massey Loader.
You put parts of chicken in it
and from emulsion and other processes
you get an output of
layers of chicken, cheddar cheese, and
bacon.
It was created by Harold Berwin in
Milton, Ohio
for the Handy Corps Food Corps
Company.
It’s used to make MacDonald’s
and Burger King products.
So, it receives fair praise
for efficiency by
highly distinguished executives.
Executives know a thing or two.
They have a high influence quotient
and buyer’s formula.
The Massey Loader’s also used to make
cat food and dog food.
It helps feed both humans and animals.
It’s humanitarian in its nature.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
I climbed into a world of apartments
where teenagers sat within.
I went to many parties,
ate chips n salsa, popcorn, and pizza.
Then I realized
it was not a world of apartments
where teenagers sat within
eating chips n salsa, popcorn, and pizza.
But rather,
it was the United States of America.
And it went on forever.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
When the desert was outside
I dragged the dildo outside
and pointing to the South wind
I plaintively said your name,
looking at the edges of Tuscon,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.
The wet glaze on the
polyvinyl chloride phallus
became lost and muffled,
muddled with dust.
I coughed and my lungs hurt,
a lone bird chirped in the distance
towards the east,
towards the chain hotels,
the sad glow of logos,
the chain restaurants,
the generic corporate way of life
we all know.
Then,
I walked back inside to watch
Channel 8,
still mumbling to myself,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
I have seen her breasts
pressed in between
blouses and heaven,
viewed her wedding ring
turn magazine pages
in the reflection of the
window,
going south on her
morning train
away from her husband,
suburban home, and
children,
into the city for gray rooms,
stale breath, business reports,
and the remnant of
what was human,
going south on her
morning train.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 