Chick with a dxck
priestess goddess concubine
for sale.
Able to infiltrate plutocracies
and plant saplings of
chaotic good.
Must ensure
unfettered freedom and zero
interruption to her
spiritual work and druidic rights.
Eats pu$$y like a magical sex toy.
Sucks dxck like a prized
state fair champion pony.
Will microwave you
State Fair Corndogs whenever
you want.
Seventy percent of her wardrobe
must be silk or satin
at all times.
Ok if you worship Satan or
Christ.
Things like that are negotiable.
But no Trumpers.
That is not negotiable.
There is only so much dxck
that can fit between her
sweet creamy thighs.
Goodnight.
Check mate.
How many Tootsie Roll pops?
How many licks?
Why is it that
guys like chicks with dxcks
but women are freaked out
by chicks with dxcks?
How many licks?
Check check.
Check your head.
That is sick.
That woman said.
This woman said.
Chicks with dxcks are
totally sick.
Check. Check.
Did you get all this?
What is there to say?
When you walk out
over a cold, bristling
windy pasture of tallgrass
to a hundred and fifty
year old walnut tree
to talk to it,
to feel its old chunky bark,
tell it deeply how much
you love it
and cry all over it
as you share your dreams
and prayers.
Who out there would do this?
One soul was called to
this tree,
finally after many long years
and many cold winters,
finally a soul has come.
That soul is mine.
That soul of mine
finds her love
staring out at the vast expanse
of the cosmos.
That is finally the lover
I have found.
My lover is a tree,
many fold made of peace
much much more
than any human ever could be.
This is how my heart beats.
It’s called girl dxck.
How you feel about it?
It’s called girl dxck.
They write bills about it.
It’s on a girl.
She has a dxck.
Oh, you people are sick.
Can’t handle this in your
gatekept brain.
Programmed to not rearrange.
Y’all break the game.
I want to scream.
I want to squeam.
Not real girls.
Really men.
Heard again.
Who’s lived this?
Simplify this then.
But what of that?
A dxck on a chick.
A chick with tits.
But
but
but
what is it…
It’s called girl dxck.
Don’t sleep on it.
God bless the kids, the students
who look ahead and don’t see
a future,
who don’t have much now,
who see their parents struggling
in dissonance and unhappiness,
who see the generation ahead
of them economically hopeless
working two or three jobs
to pay their landlords rent,
and these students all over
our country
are raising their voices,
putting their lives on pause,
being beat and arrested by police
to say one simple call,
“Free Free Palestine”.
The senators and congress people
who line their pockets with
special interest money from
Israeli lobbyists
and defense contractors
refuse to listen or stop the genocide.
And what they will get next
is an all out revolt and revolution.
So God bless the kids, the students.
I’d like to, but I never will,
be a maintenance mechanic
on an intergalactic Earthling
navy spaceship
on a journey for cosmic peace.
I want to wear that modern
dungaree suit,
made out of space age materials
that feel cozy and also are cooling.
The suit feels like it’s made out of air.
I want to be in love with my bunk mate.
Her name is Mayumi.
She’s from the Gifu prefecture in Japan.
She programs
the produce garden irrigation system.
At night we would cuddle on one of
our bunks,
with our fingers in each other.
Her bunk smells of rose water…
I prefer Mayumi’s bunk.
She likes the muscles of my arms.
Mayumi likes my muscles.
Sometimes
when I think of
my old home back in Texas,
I think of this time late one night,
probably about 3 or 4 am,
I fxcked this woman named
Allison, or some similar name,
like Amber,
all across the kitchen floor.
I say fxcked, but what I mean is
I ate her out righteously
until she slid and sled
all across that kitchen floor
moaning and gasping,
clambering, as her clothes and
her hair fell apart.
Until she was nothing remaining
except calm exasperated breaths,
and my mouth tasted only full
of her.
We looked at each other eye to eye
and smiled.
Got up, gathered ourselves from
the bright electric light,
went into my bedroom and cuddled
til morning.
I think about how a mom and dad
are now raising their young family
in that home and kitchen.
The Moon floats ‘cross the sky
and I love her.
I always think of a woman
I love when the full moon floats
high and lofty through the sky.
Why? I don’t know.
We’re supposed to is my guess.
Women are supposed to think of
women they love when they
look up and see that
softly golden orb shining bright
and alone across the navy night.
As if our love is written in a way
that nature encodes…
because our kind of
love is sacred and hallowed
that civilization attempted
to erase long ago.
But The Moon comes back around
again and again
to remind us
we are beings of love and lovers
of beings of love.
(a poem for National Poetry Month & Lesbian Visibility Week)
It’s weird when you’re healing
from a major surgery
and fairly immobile
and then you think of
your dead kitty cat,
two years deceased,
how you wish he was still here,
how he would be
so concerned and loving
towards you,
and then you get
the feeling of his presence
with you now,
and suddenly have a
recognition of how strong
you are and the words
“You can do anything”
come into your mind.
Then you realize it was
your dead kitty cat telling
you that.
Just a good Christian woman,
I’m just a good Christian woman,
who likes cats and fresh baked
cookies.
Seance, seance, seance,
verse, verse, verse,
say it.
Provenance. Devout.
Devoutly divine, am I, my faith,
sitting on Sundays, I will wait
in the church cafeteria with the
smell of cream of mushroom soup
and casseroles surrounding.
Will wait, will wait, will wait for
Heaven.
There I will
love cream of mushroom soup,
but not as much as I love our Lord,
Dear Father.
He knows down here on Earth,
I’m just a good Christian woman.
He comes down to me on Earth,
divine.
(another solid gold poem to celebrate National Poetry Month #napowrimo)
novamartinpoetry.com 