Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
I sleep with books.
Electricity plagues the
howlers dreams
wanting of what is shown
and things
the moment becomes
a want of one thing
then the next
the next status
celebrity
big opportunity
become be a thought leader
drill into the brain
who has noticed me.
But I shut my fucking
mouth
put away those electric screens
breathe in through the nose
heart beating calm
in a house with lots of wood
and at night
I sleep with books.
She looks out the window
with blue eyes,
her breakfast burrito in hand,
the light of the day slices
gold streaks
upon them.
And she finds that the goats
once playing with each other,
headbutting heads,
have tired,
then she realizes
nothing lasts forever,
everything eventually expires.
Her head feels better.
Her mind more clear now.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
I went to the night
and I wanted to run
further and further
into the star fields above.
Into the past.
Past my own people
and their adoration of
gender and tyrants,
drunk on power,
desperate without it.
For
the people here are slaves
to desperation.
Insignificant in space,
yet precious in form.
How
can we live content
as dust?
How
can we live
and then take
our form again,
in some manner,
some way?
Further and further
into the star fields above,
I lust.
I pray.
I send signals their way.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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
Get me out of this
Outback Steakhouse.
It is not in the outback.
Nor is it a steakhouse.
If Jenny from 3rd period English
is there,
it will be too much
to watch the plasticine moment
of people purchasing
something that doesn’t exist.
If I sit there and watch the plates
come in,
I will watch them,
watch them bring nothingness.
Jenny’s supple breasts evoke
trances
just like women and children
as items on TV,
or like fathers
with chiseled chins and parted hair
riding shiny new lawnmowers.
Economies are made to make
shit like this.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
I awake day after day
with the Pentecostal damage
Slowly rehydrating my blood
each morning
the world grows
the past keeps pulling
The arguments of forefathers
alive in my muscles
Ignorance dwells in me
in the house of the human
Though I proceed forward
vaporizing my spirit in the
desert of the later morning
light
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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