creative writing – novamartinpoetry.com

Poems

Pinball Queener

(for cm)

Exactly how good are you

at pinball?

I really want to know.

Are you good enough to

make me know.

I really want you to

make me know.

Right there on the machine.

You standing watchfully.

Taking some cool breaths.

On the machine.

Pulling the plunger.

Flicking those flippers.

Oh ringing the golden bells.

Just making those lights

bling bling.

I would like to see those lights

bling bling

on the milk white skin of

your thighs

alternating over that contrast of

your black tattoos

and up on your Irish fair eyes.

Also on your black lipstick.

Flash flash.

Bling bling.

Poems

The coven of druidesses
in an Appalachian forest
prayed for me
in the common tongue
to the woods.
There is something
gathering for me,
around me, within me
so I can take this gathering
and give immensely
to the world,
give love,
give love mostly,
that is what’s most needed.
And…
the full moon brought her,
my gorgeous blue eyed,
tall, long and lean woman.
She cums upon me
on this big night of big sky.
Cuz the druidesses knew
I need love in order to
love more.
Love love more!
That is what our work is for.
For all of us to love more.

Poems

Men & Women

What if men had vaginas?
What if women had penises?
What if?
What if?
What if?

They do.
They do.
They do.
Right here
on this sacred earth,
where we will conquer hate
and men with vaginas
and women with penises
will be loved and accepted
… by even the transphobic
gay men and gay women
and also the hateful Christians.

Poems

Why Does The Queen?

Why does the queen

not sit on the throne?

The queen sits on a carpet

on the floor

with plebeians, peasants,

monks, witches, and shamans.

Why does the queen

not send armies into war

like the king?

The queen sends spices

and fruits to the villages

so the people can

make their food.

She sends instruments

so they can make music

to celebrate life

and lament their dead.

And wood so they can

warm their hearths.

Why does the queen

not take a king?

The queen makes other

queens.

History has had kings

enough.

Poems

In The Shower With The Future

In the shower in my hotel room

in Bangkok,

I listen to The Flaming Lips

“In The Morning Of The Magicians”.

It’s morning here and I’m getting

prepared to meet the CEO of

my company in an hour.

As the soft, warm water pours

down my silky skin,

and as I feel the song more and

more,

I begin to daydream of a woman

whom I’m falling in love with.

I start imagining how incredible

it would be to wake up with them

on a morning, every morning.

Then I just start crying out of joy

and tenderness.

Deep, soulful crying.

It’s like I can’t believe this

would be possible,

maybe not with the woman I was

daydreaming of.

I still believe morning moments

like that will happen.

I feel the depth, joy, and pain

of the future and of waiting for

the future,

and am thankful for

that spiritual moment in the shower

with that song.

Poems

JoAnn’s Ass

You could create a civilization

around her ass.

You could solve all the world’s

problems with her ass.

Defeat bigotry and fascism,

cure cancer,

heal our planet,

save the children,

bring back Jesus,

and undo capitalism.

Yes, I would do anything that ass

were to ask of me.

And her ass is really just the

cherry on top of an incredible

performer, musician, and

good person.

This ass belongs to JoAnn,

a punk rock vixen,

lead singer of Hen & The Cocks

from lovingly weird Denton, Texas.

You have read that correctly;

Denton, Texas is home to the

world’s greatest ass.

Poems

Peni$-Pu$$y

My peni$ smells like pu$$y.

Good pu$$y.

Sweet pu$$y.

Again,

I’m talking about a peni$

my peni$, smelling like pu$$y.

And no, not because I

fkd a cisgender woman

with good, sweet pu$$y.

My peni$ smells like good

sweet pu$$y

because

I take female hormones

and I’m a woman

with a peni$.

You know,

womanliness wouldn’t fuck up

having a peni$.

Womanliness takes a peni$

and makes it actually ok, tolerable,

a real prized pony.

Poems

I Hung Around

I hung around a guy tonight.
He was really horny.
I was really horny too.
He was kind and cool,
and honestly,
pretty handsome.
I knew that should I want,
I could have him, we could fck.
I would know exactly what to do.
I know how to satisfy people,
anyone,
deeply,
pleasurably, heavenly.
But as I said,
he was a man,
so I had zero interest in him.
It’s moments like this that I know
I’m gay.
Horniness meets horniness.
It’s there for the taking.
But I do not take it, nor do I care.

And so I laid down in bed and
thought about women
and touched myself.

Poems

She Sees

She sees I’m looking
for love.
And she’s scared.
Scared that someone could
look for love that bad,
that the world could make
someone so hopeful,
though so needy,
held on this cosmic ocean,
a sand grain
whirled before infinity and
annihilation.
She sees the annihilation
that my heart beats
every time she looks at me,
into my eyes,
and she sees all that’s been
lost and all that will be lost.
She’s scared, so she stops
looking and forgets in time.
But then time forgets her
and everything else.

Poems

Sometimes At 45

This is a sad poem.
These are sad days these days.
Well, to be honest, these days
are a mix of incredibly fulfilling
and happy days, the happiest
I’ve experienced in my life, but then
sad days from dwelling in the pain
of a breakup, hearing the things
she said, over and over, in my head,
things she said to question my gender,
my legitimacy as a woman, and as a
gay woman — that I was not the real,
authentic deal for her.
So, sometimes I wonder, if I die in my
45th year, would she, wherever she’s at
when she receives the news,
would she breakdown?
Would she tear her living room apart,
smash furniture, throw knickknacks
against the wall until they shattered
into pieces of glass or porcelain?
Or, would she be with friends and drop
to her knees, crumble into their arms
in a sobbing, inconsolable state?
Or, would she just turn to her daughters
in a state of shock and say stoically,
“Nova’s dead”, then breakdown as
they watched her — scared and confused
and hurt themselves?