There is a mystic
that Jesus does not know.
His followers do not know —
they who make their wine,
they who bake their bread.
For their sacrifices taken from others,
their affluence removes them.
A riddle A Domini.
Tag: christianity
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
She lived
while other women
in her church
died,
got breast cancer,
had heart attacks,
grew old.
Her arms stayed thin
on the bone
while others got fat
and flabby,
marbled with vericose veins
and their breath grew
stale and sour.
She felt the fallen masculinity
in the men around her,
their loss of heroism,
though she loved her husband
nonetheless.
She knows this is what
our way of life offers,
so she lived in the moments in between,
the trips to
the nursing home
to visit friends
and the turning of the
Bible pages.
They let him go
when he was young and dying of cancer,
drifting through outer-space
they let him go,
the last people’s race of people
didn’t own him,
floating past nationalism and liberty
as cancer an eternalness created
archetypes of the sufferer,
the fear of the shadow,
just the vessel of the genome,
we lift you up to the cluster,
the ridge of stars.
Child without childhood
reaches for your fingers,
the seven wrinkles,
your chance to perceive things
but it ran away with the forms and
words of humanness,
just the vessel of the genome,
information is transferable
in
this
standing in a field before a 7-11®,
a parent kisses their child at college
in Kansas.
They got to go to college,
wave, wave . . . waves
but wave to the abilities of Einstein,
those crackling transmissions of the
Pentecost,
those crackling wavebands of gray.
Jesus saves.
Computers save.
On Sunday, June 19th,
Jesus Christ
will be preaching
his stuff
at
your local Waffle House.
Complimentary
blood grits
will be served.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)
This is the phone number
for the gatekeeper of Althesius,
(555) 484-1123.
He is an excellent fisherman.
Althesius is a gated seaport.
Very odd,
but since the conquest of Xerxes
we have feared other invasions,
except the sunrises
and the bronzing that it does to
our morning smiles.
We eat grapes in the morning, freshly harvested,
bathe in the sea,
listen to the cries of the homosexual waves
on the homosexual sea-nymphs.
The sunlight touches them: they are brethren.
“Come with me
and I
will make you
fishers
of men.”
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)
“Mob mentality allows us
to make fun of disabled children.
Mob mentality engenders us to say stuff like
‘Ah yeah, booyah bitch!’
Mob mentality solicits a group from loneliness,
from loneliness,
to support a Republican or a Democrat,
consent it to a president,
consent the apathy of
otherness.
Mob mentality is the great right right goodness
that defines an ignorant people.”
– Zebucus (at the Sea of Similarity)
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
“God having a penis.
The reasons, Dr. Morgan Rutherford;
I spent time by myself alone
and no one came.”
“And you say God has a penis?
Why can he not have problems
with his asshole?
Or, viscosity and talking lips
that ramble the fates of men?”
“But Doc, how glorious should I die
in the stillness of the countryside
with a 12-gauge shotgun
blowing my fucking brains out?
Stallions run outside.
Oak trees dream under that sky.
My parents would say ‘O my God’,
God would die with me,
would he not?”
“Well yes, yes, I am doctor.”
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Christ + Missy = Chrissy.
She’s outside the building right now,
behind it.
Chrissy has a couple powers,
being made from Christ and Missy.
Chrissy . . . Chrissy . . . Chrissy.
She’s smoking a cigarette.
Don’t tell Missy.
Christ will be mad.
Christ doesn’t get mad.
Verily I say unto you,
Chrissy comes from the crossing of
Christ and Missy.
Was that Christ or Missy speaking?
That was Christ again,
popping up out of Chrissy,
the telepathic hologram thingy.
Chrissy just put
her cigarette out in the flowers.
Chrissy!
She walked back inside the portable building.
Chrissy . . . Chrissy . . . Chrissy.
Is Chrissy the one who named her dog Steven?
Steven better get back over here.
He’s gone across the property line.
The neighbor’s calling.
Chrissy, you left Steven outside again.
He’s gone across the property line.
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.
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