The hallway outside the
Chicago Nonmonogamy Conference
smelled like eggs Gascognais
and spilled wine.
That’s fine, but it’s May and
smells like this shouldn’t persist over
the flowering outside and the
fresh steamed carpet of the
conference center.
So I looked for a new lover
between the walls of beige and
carpet of gray, like the thoughts of
corporations, the smell persisted
to make me wonder what intestinal
culture existed there where the other
culture does but doesn’t exist in
some way
in our libertine-still-corporatist blood.
Month: February 2017
I kill God today,
“Odd”, it said my father,
“You live, but not in the House of Vacations.”
The jungle we can bend
with the credit cards we’ve rented
to make it to L.A.,
the journey to the Capitol
of the Good-life’s consciousness.
To see God bathe
as He who has His form and penis.
The Murderers by His pool!
By His devoted architecture!
“Odd”, it said my mother,
you live but not in my house,
for you, my son, have killed God today.
Suddenly there was a gas.
People ran out into the street to
celebrate the banks.
“The banks are here!
They are not leaving!
They have our money!”
They cheered loudly and started
collecting money.
They placed the money in a big pile
and had Big Mike bring his flatbed
truck over
to haul the money away to the bank.
The money has intrinsic value that
gives inflation meaning.
A lot of people had Kool-Aid stains
around their mouths.
They were yelling, giving each other
high fives.
Big Mike honked his horn as he drove away.
Who took the money?
Suddenly there was a flash and a loud noise.
Everyone collected themselves and their items.
They went inside their houses
and pulled down their shades and turned
on their TVs.
The Super Bowl was on.
Lots of really cool television
commercials shined that night.
A lot of people had Kool-Aid stains
around their mouths.
Everyone has to pay taxes.
You can’t cheat death, not with that
level of personal worth.
And Jesus, Leroy, isn’t someone always
watching you?
I attempted to write.
I attempted to do,
before children no longer mattered.
If ever I write,
if ever I do,
then children no longer matter.
Children own pieces.
Children have brains.
Children submit the ideology o nationhood.
Children as interests.
Children as food.
Children no longer matter.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
I’m
hooking up
with a girl
raised on
olive oil.
She asked me
if the stones
at her feet
I had cast.
She
must
mistake me
for a
civil engineer
of the Roman Army,
but
I prefer
to remain
shy.
I was never proud
of my
conquering heritage.
Who cast
the obsidian
of her pupils?
I am
proud
of them.
Who poured
the water
that sweats
from her feet?
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)
Have you looked at your face recently?
Or, you better look at your face.
Or, what’s that on your face?
Or, what’s wrong with your face?
From the CIA’s poor planetary
management
we rise
From the movements in October
first drawn in window panes
we rise
within Detroit
From the codes of the Widow
then passed onto these ions
we rise
We wake we rise
in Calcutta
in Nebraska
in Santiago, then Ultima Thule
We rise from what is unformed
for the whispering star of night
James, I know not what I’ve done
“His family was wealthy.”
What this means is often that
his father had a penchant
for putting objects up his ass,
not “his” ass, but his father’s
own ass.
I’m not sure why, but about
80% of wealthy patriarchs
have a thing for putting
things up their ass.
Maybe it is another way for them
to consume more and more,
as much as possible of the world.
Their appetite is voracious and
most of us want to be like them,
the wealthy patriarch, putting
things up our ass.
It’s true, we do.
Most of them have diamond or
at least cubic zirconia encrusted
butt plugs.
But us, most of us, we don’t.
When I face the toothbrush
I am scared.
Scared that I might feel uncomfortable
and choke on my tongue,
like the time when I was 22 years old
and drove down the highway alone
and choked on my tongue
in the middle of an anxiety attack
and had to grab hold of my tongue
with my hand so I wouldn’t swallow it.
Scared that this might all happen again,
that I might freak out in the middle of a meeting
and run out of the room crying.
These are the things that grown men do.
These are not the things that grown men do.
New Age religions
and business success books
teach me to never consider myself
with flaws or weaknesses,
to only accept my greatness,
never my vulnerabilities,
and never to admit to these.
Never give another person power,
control the power,
control situations,
control others.
Create your reality.
Be a white man.
I will go on vacation
to Playa del Carmen in May.
The skies will be warm and perfectly blue.
The scents of blooming flowers
and freshly made tortillas
come in through the windows.
The world will be what I want it to be.
Suffering doesn’t exist.
Who suffers?
Stop crying.
Get up and get out of here.
Ten children are missing
in the place between
here
and
now.
They’re left for air and radiation,
our Father’s home is in the sky.
The housing development contains wood panel walls
and alarm clocks,
tables with plates of crackers sitting on top them
and spilled cups of juice.
The housing development expands
and receives
the edge of Space and the daybreak.
Between 500 square miles a cosmic living room
begins to open to the heavens, ballistic missile silos,
and the ionized atmosphere.
There are the children,
in uniforms and now giants in mirrored optical physics.
A character in a cartoon show yells,
“It’s an optical illusion, we’re headed to Dimension 15!”
The character is being shown to you on television
(or in the mirrored optical physics market).
novamartinpoetry.com 