eugenics – novamartinpoetry.com

The Greens Of Prolmama

The Greens Of Prolmama
that place by the sunglasses store on Sunset Blvd
has helped a lot of cancer survivors get that way
You’ve been that way with your teeth
to stop and turn to the mountain
it makes us look that way
the way we look when there’s just too much
Cowboys riding into the future from the past on a spaceship
or an ion generation device
They make nice clothing at least for the persons who want
to look like that
The Greens infuse my chest cavity
so I look up to see Andromeda’s aftermath
and the aftermath is ignored by all the mammals and the reptiles
unless there’s fire
we’re then drawn outward
to a journey that takes a long long time
I could count the plastic in the toy store
or a municipal dump all for an afternoon to remember now
when we kissed as men reading the Bible

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

The Elementary School Across From Whataburger

The little girl is talking to the trees
But the trees won’t wake up
To tell her what she needs

How her hair is
Who her friends will be
What side of town her family should
Live

The trees are old
They’ve lived long enough
They think it’s stupid what they’d
Have to explain
So they stay asleep
And the other kids avoid
The little girl talking to the trees
Because she’s different
And won’t walk around in circles
In the parking lot
Like the rest of the kids are told
To do so by their P.E. teachers
Because it’s a part of the curriculum
The planning of making tomorrow’s
Americans
be like this

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

Sacrifice Ye Ancestoroid

Run ‘round the rotunda brother.

Run ’round the rotunda mother.

I will bash both your heads in,
the both of you,

while you are running around the rotunda,
mother and brother
clouds do tell

the King Makers, the King Killers
lined up all around the rotunda.

Worshiping on both sides of morality,
worshiping, worshiping, worshiping.

Worshiping the whiteness of light
and the whiteness of stone,
the smell of mineral or concrete,
lemon scented candles,
white cotton sheets.

The Aztecs were tilted off sideways,
off into the sun.

I killed them in the Spring,
it’s like Summertime here.
My telegram to the county commissioner
standing right now by the church
said:

“O, my brother and mother are dead.
I have killed them.
In Spring it’s like Summertime here,
ten o’clock yesterday morning,
they were the walking dead,
the bait fisters . . . the bait fisters!

I’m sorry but I cannot fix this
with their knees twisted backwards, broken in time,
that bloody time
they broke with their damn bait fisting, the bait fisters
still walking, still worshiping.

It goes on in programmatic genetics.”

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin