I loved the sun
from a window that had been made
by the sun.
What’s calling done?
The call of my hope at the sun
through a window
made by a billion years
of mineral toiling.
What’s calling done?
Nothing is done.
So I long and hope as an object
calling home
around a star
I must have come from
in some form,
looking at myself,
in some form,
distant, calling, now alone.
Tag: copywriting
Something my father taught me
was always have enough water
in your house
so that if your water supply got cut off
you would have enough water
to keep you hydrated long enough
to make a trek on foot
to your nearest town
and get to a convenience store
and take by force, if necessary,
however much water you needed,
using a tactical shotgun for persuasion.
Onst poverty I can’ts buy
the best of the cheap bread;
with American Express®,
the premium brands,
for women
their panty hose,
silk blouses for breasts,
steak dinners times ten.
Where do I go to apply
for luxuries and convenience,
and I may not qualify?
Will a government agency help me
live thee up to standards?
The liberty to possess
and use
American Express®
is attained by honor;
this is not a threat.
– Poetry by Nova Martin
from Antipoémus (poetry book)
There’s something called a faux paella.
I make it when nobody’s looking.
I take my girlfriend down to the beach.
Yeah yeah yeah.
The faux paella . . . fuh fuh fuh,
faux paella!
It sits on a window seal in a dish.
The cops on the street look up at it.
The encyclopedia doesn’t dare speak of it.
The faux paella.
Now after it’s been cooked the process is finished.
You fake what’s been done in a pan – in a pot.
The priest is restrained and also well beaten.
O holy lake of fire.
The Holy Spirit jumps up out of it.
Toss it in an oven in between breathing.
Some people spill it on the beach.
Faux paella.
Yeah yeah yeah.
Faux paella!
The police are here to arrest all of you.
Faux paella!
Oh yes, faux paella!
I gnash my teeth and bash out windows.
Oh my Lord,
not again, not in my friend’s car,
the bombs are loud, the smoke is blue.
The faux paella!
News of a new war.
The faux paella!
The economy’s not doing good.
That’s the faux paella!
Arm the national police force
with the faux paella.
The faux paella . . . fuh fuh fuh,
faux paella!
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 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
I see the inhumane shapes
of women in shop windows.
I know that God exists.
I have to know that God exists
. . . as I see the inhumane shapes
of women in the shop windows.
Things cannot be made,
such as the shapes of women
in the shop windows.
These are of infinity,
burned perfectly in neurons,
and they are not agenda.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
My penis pisses barbecue sauce.
I run for the presidency.
I remove my penis.
The people now understand the presidency.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Driving in a BMW®
the air feels warmer and warmer.
Driving in a BMW®
penises get larger and larger.
A flower rests on cow leather.
On the way to a funeral,
driving in a BMW®
young William knows nothing of
his loss.
Tater tots press into the seats.
A cartoon squelches on screen.
Tinted windows blot out clouds.
Children refrain from speaking.
Driving in a BMW®
life is a luxury.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
“Alder 9,
this is a mud shit mess
I tell you,
a mud shit mess.
Alder 9,
are you registering this
with yourself?
Master,
why’d you bring us here?”
“The course of resources is possible here,
according to the genetic terminus,
as the famines and wars served their purposes
on Earth
and as the Earthlings say,
and also in Heaven.”
“I wish I was in Heaven right now,
I’d go to the recreational platform.”
“Alder 9, most Earthlings don’t know
about the recreational platform in Heaven,
let’s not mention it out here.”
“Alright . . .
Look! On that ledge,
something’s moving!”
“Oh God, oh no,
up there!
It’s a bus full of school children!”
“It looks like it’s those dinosaurs and barbarians
over there.”
“Alder 9,
let’s fucking roll,
stop lollygagging around!
Move it,
fucking move it, you chintzy bastard!”
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 