Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
I will love you with your
genital herpes.
I promise I am valiant
and cannot find
the likes of such a woman
during any of the decades
before disease,
cannot find the man that makes
the machine
that makes disease,
but I understand the CIA
is hiring the best,
my dear lady, J. Edgar Hoover.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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
In the first 100 days
we welcomed you as bone
through the corridor of the white temple,
next we enter the brown one,
for era
and its sunlight.
The beige cities pass on the way
and you walk the outskirts of the crowded districts,
like tourists, you count your days there,
but harvesters with celestial migrations bring
crops, dust, and pollinators
in from the orbitals
until at the last changing of color
you throw away your ribcage,
as you no longer need it,
pressed and known into terrestrial soil,
been done and dispersed in the rain.
Clouds come and go like spaceships
for the bodies
in the journey through the temples.
SuperNations are inconsequential,
as are Kingdoms and SuperLeaders,
encoded information.
The orb is everexistent.
The word is priyama,
the body priyamay.
The deliverance has been delivered.
The breath is threshed.
The stars are ponies.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Everyday
I count the battleships
Many more, many more do come
In your backyard we eat potato chips
The grey hulls show on water
as if like instruction manuals at night
We cut our hair
to celebrate the information . . . their information
I’ve left the canned chili in the cupboard on purpose
Rodger God comes for the blueprints
And we continue to count many more specks,
many more
on the horizon
We have to hide the information from
they hid theirs from us
You know, the fucked up eyes and fingers
Let us break those fingers and plant the turquoise
in the ground
for the squirrels to love in spring
Go there now in Corvettes,
GMAC Financing has zero percent A.P.R.
Go to the big big bay to see
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Not to masturbate
for lovers long gone
I learned there that night
shooting my semen into the river.
My heart was beating.
The moon was her boobies.
She held my brow.
My semen bubbled, foamed-up,
and drifted away.
I write the Senate Commissioner’s Bill.
My penis hangs low
on the banks of the Potomac.
I’m an inside traitor.
The cattail wavers. I go away
through the darkness
commissioned at the end of
the last century.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Riot. Riot. Riots.
They have built a mountain out of
symbols.
A net, a web, a pedagogy of
controls.
Who was this man?
Who are the high-excluded,
the killers of the four Kennedys?
These star controllers
with patents and chipsets,
electrodes and diodes,
combines
colluding the genetic flora genomes,
oh, a far off quota
hidden in iron mountains under
different ultraviolet spectrums.
For we must be altered
so they there,
so they there can live.
Remember the Agora!
Remember the Forum!
But the riot. Riot. Riots
could stop this
if words could meet them
on the other side of the electrical
divide,
beyond the spell of electrical devices,
in their hearts out in the streets.
The riots inside of their hearts.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
What has to stop
for the satellites to quit doing
what they do?
What knows its own fate
and realizes its own consciousness?
What is beamed by the satellites?
What is lost?
What constructs the Universe’s reverberances?
What reverberates in your heart right now?
Your head being a reverberate point
between the bouncing ions
and the colors that are sequenced.
The Satellite God speaks to you.
It does what it will.
And the jugs of sweet tea are on sale,
the jugs of sweet tea are on sale.
You have a vacation coming up soon.
What has to take place for the vacations
to quit happening?
What has to walk towards What?
In What direction,
towards What place,
What family meeting area,
for What purpose?
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
I am on a planet.
I eat the godbrains here.
And believe them.
You’re far across the Universe.
You know,
in a giant greenhouse somewhere,
on a different planet,
I am eating the godbrains.
Hiding in the back of a little shed,
tucked into a corner of the greenhouse.
There, I work on the computers,
the receptors and the generators,
the ones the agency transported there,
the Delacroix 5 and the Destructor 12.
The Destructor 12 was very important
in the run up to the end.
We’ve now gone shy on parts for it.
We’ll look for those parts past the dunes,
just where the grass stops growing
and the sand cliffs begin.
The sunset burns into the hues of
the horizon
on this planet
where the merchants sell
computers to make this stuff.
And while you were sleeping,
the door to the sky
came open.
While you
negotiated your job title,
watched television,
paid on your mortgage,
went down to the store.
The door to the sky.
The door to the sky!
. . . Made many people wealthy
as they colluded with the
pontificates of being,
shipping your dreams and
your genetics
off to the arching, elliptical sky.
When I am old,
hysterical and worn out,
running from the farm,
just shoot me in the head.
Don’t let me get off the farm.
When you’re done with the shooting of me
in the head
shoot me in the throat
to stop my soul.
Have a dinner for me that night,
back on the farm,
with red wine, root vegetables
and some type of roasted pheasant.
Don’t let me get off the farm,
even if you have to throw rocks
on my chest
to keep the gravity held down and balanced.
Don’t let me get off the farm.
The gravity and the farm are old friends,
synonymous in a way with each other.
Gravity’s high-volume generation farm
exists in the asteroid fields just beyond Mars.
DO
NOT
LET ME
GET THAT FAR
in the symbolism of intellectualism.
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