I know we don’t agree on much.
Y’all think God has a penis.
I don’t think God even has genitals.
And if he did, he would have a vagina.
A big, boundless, life-giving,
life-affirming, endlessly sweet-smelling
vagina.
It would smell like a brand new, pristine
recently constructed corporate conference room
that someone had poured the finest
Tupelo honey all over,
with that scent of blessed sunshine coming in
through the windows at midday.
But,
regardless of our disagreements and y’alls
views on God’s gender and genitals,
y’all did the right thing by voting for
Joe Biden.
Especially considering
that y’all had previously voted for Donald Trump
back in 2016.
I’m glad you were able to see what a
pathetic, corrupt, poser, loser,
petulant, bully, child he is.
Tag: democracy
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
They’re getting married.
They’re doing something that’s never done.
They’re having children.
They’re approaching pinnacles of life.
They’re buying batteries.
They’re doing what anyone can do.
They’re doing nothing.
They’re fixing food in the microwave.
They have a job.
They’re alone.
They’re sometimes cowards.
They impress management.
It’s not their fault.
They’re doing nothing.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
From the CIA’s poor planetary
management
we rise
From the movements in October
first drawn in window panes
we rise
within Detroit
From the codes of the Widow
then passed onto these ions
we rise
We wake we rise
in Calcutta
in Nebraska
in Santiago, then Ultima Thule
We rise from what is unformed
for the whispering star of night
James, I know not what I’ve done
The car arrives at Point One.
The other car makes its presence kin
to the car in opposition.
This is not mere car at Point Two,
but rather car between
Point Two and Three –
(the car at) Point Two and Seven Eights.
The car in opposition dear Titus,
the emperor is in danger.
If he makes a move right now,
then he is in Concourse,
… like checkmate.
Look at the men on top of the building.
They lay with rifles and binoculars.
They are
the Dispatched Guardians of Hegemony.
Always white, or at least in the appearance
of proper white males.
Yes, tightly cut hair, tight shirts, watches,
sunglasses, body spray.
Yes, always males.
They checkmate us, checkmate us.
Checkmate our freedom.
The Dispatched Guardians of Hegemony.
You allow them.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
novamartinpoetry.com 