oligarchy – novamartinpoetry.com

Solaris Hymn 40

This mortal earth
aside
the millionaire denies it,
the egotist claims her
and in missing the light,
shadows,
and calculus
of Solaris,
the revelation of suffering
avoids them.

So they only pass,
leaving unloved children
to repeat their wrath
and continue
the cycles of mortals.

O hold up you high
Piraeus’ glass at midday
and know
the wealth of nothingness.

Socrates is there
with wild hair
on the bed made by slaves
still dreaming.

Sappho is dead, just dead.
Her corpse wrapped in
loins.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

When will the markets fall?
The ghosts of the Palatine know
this.
The futile obsolescence is
faith.
The pillaged and raped tomorrow
being the rich in this hour
with their orange groves.
The ghosts of the Palatine know
this
and yet they build more skyscrapers
in New York City
where the water is rising
and will rise before the migration
to space is possible
and the fiends of eternity will
perish.

Poems

Executive Sauce

My penis pisses barbecue sauce.
I run for the presidency.
I remove my penis.
The people now understand the presidency.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Antipoémus, Poems

S.T.R.E.N.G.T.H. Cats

In the middle of the night I awake
to the smell of bacon and eggs in the air.

The people of the world
are outside on the lawn cooking bacon and eggs
for the President of the United States.

The United States military is standing all around them,
pointing guns at them
while they cook bacon and eggs for the President.

They give him the eggs of their daughters,
their ovaries for an American football match,
a contest of strength.

The President is the Signifier of Penis.
This sentence is the signifier of rape.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

from:

Antipoémus (poetry book)

Poems

Clown Presidential

I defend the family.
I stand upon the balance.
I defend the family.
I stand upon my head.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

Saturn

Saturn came to destroy
M-16 deliverance

a wall falls
on a family of peasants in China

the free world elects a president

a tyrant takes his post in the leftover lands
of Persia

technology beats bayonets

a tank crushes cans of food

somewhere at latitudes north of northwest
Saturn is crushing the spark of
new gravity

Saturn is man’s holy alliance,
his walled cathedrals and the
tapestries of mosques

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

Postscript

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

Antipoémus, Poems

Nahuatl Codus 2

The commodity-discriminate-hospital
on purpose a backing of the
commodity-segregate-economic-system.

A champion, a prized artifice of war,
the ruler-commodity-hierarchal
of the only-thing-holy
commodity-segregate-system.

The commodity-sad-emotions and
commodity-bored&tired-spending
keep you in check,
not thinking outside of your
commodity-place-where-they-need-to-be-kept-those-people.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:

Antipoémus (poetry book)

Antipoémus, Poems

Generic Rappin’ Eastside River

Suck my bleach,
yo President whitey.

When the kingdoms you want,
the kingdoms you create.

Suck my bleach,
yo President whitey.

You suckin’ people’s faith.
You suckin’ people’s fear.

Suck my bleach,
yo President whitey.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:

Antipoémus (poetry book)

Poems

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.

Worshiping 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 tilted 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 programmatic genetics.”

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin