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: propaganda
I want to feel small.
I am a woman.
I have seen advertisements
all my life.
In them,
women are always
smaller
than men.
When I played with dolls
as a little girl
the female dolls were always
three times as skinny as
the male dolls.
For these reasons,
I want to feel small.
I understand this to be love
and
emotional security
and the reality behind
economics;
needs created.
Driving in a BMW®
the air feels warmer and warmer.
Driving in a BMW®
penises get larger and larger.
A flower rests on cow leather.
On the way to a funeral,
driving in a BMW®
young William knows nothing of
his loss.
Tater tots press into the seats.
A cartoon squelches on screen.
Tinted windows blot out clouds.
Children refrain from speaking.
Driving in a BMW®
life is a luxury.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
I have a TV in one room.
I go into the other room to watch the other TV.
Call it the Hall of Wisdom if you want.
I drink my sodas at the half hour of every hour.
Call it the Sacredness of Life at this point;
the Hours of Opportunity,
the Attainment of Ability;
purchasing.
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)
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
Le grand cyberattack came down from the clouds
one day when I was walking through the park
and passed by intellectuals hanging out,
reading novels and plays.
They sipped coffee, wore berets, ate baguettes.
The berets could be replaced by dark skinny jeans,
disheveled tshirts or designer sport coats
depending on what is marketed at the time
as being the look of the thinking or creative person.
Le grand cyberattack happened in between the floor
of my apartment
and was hardly noticed except by animals and
small creatures
living in an invisible world well beyond our consciousness.
TV was almost devoid of the grand cyberattack
but for the producer’s laptop computer being denied
internet service
while he was trying to purchase last minute airplane tickets
to war-torn Syria.
The effects of le grand cyberattack were unregistered
in Syria
and he eventually made it there to tell us on the television
how it really is
over there.
The future projected to me in cartoons when I was a child
was completely wiped out by le grand cyberattack.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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
I’d like to invite you to war.
“War is hell,” my grandfather said.
Things are going to be on sale.
After the war
there will be volume buying power.
There will be everything.
We fight these wars for freedom.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
The Bells of Tolrileum
I heard during torture,
the marketization, rule systems,
and subjugation
of
people.
The unfreedoms.
The magik. Symbology.
I remember the lost civilizations
the Way of the Queens
the days of learning and courage
introspection with molecules.
I heard the Bells of Tolrileum.
Now
others are hearing.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 