masculine studies – novamartinpoetry.com

Poems

Song Of The Condom Merchant’s Son

My penis has holes in it.

When I piss
urine leaks from all the sides.

The tile floors of my mother’s house are stained.

I hide.

Father has a moustache.
He comes and gets me,

“Ilsador. Ilsador, where are you?
Ilsador, you have not sought the doctor’s council.”

Poems

Brahmin Way

Have you ever noticed
if you watch testicles closely,
they move like anything
on the tops of waves
in high seas,
like the chests of living persons
breathing in and out?

Doctors in ancient India called this
the unfolding of each man’s universe.

Poems

Executive Sauce

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

Poems

Eternity Season

Perish for those unknown
the ways of perishing
haunt the wood of farmhouses
the worries of housewives

we shall not perish as stone
I promise you

perish in riches or searches
the lashes of the ocean

those that seek SHALL perish
the ones who speak
the misguided seekings
are no better than computers
or all this software cast about

we are flesh and blood
in this household

we are bonded together
your mother, brother, sister and I

but the father is wayward
and symbolically, the same as illusion itself

in the elements of the Universe
testosterone is insignificant and has no register
and software is always virtual

don’t be software

we are flesh and blood
in this household

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

The 100 Trillion Distances

The door to my room
looks like it goes somewhere,

to a land of opportunity maybe,
to a corridor leading into outer space?

The light of my room
is a day
under which
isolated men lay scattered on islands and beaches.

Their skin and my skin,

it is more different here than the planet the women live on,

the all-exuding sun! the all-exuding sun!

it is more different here than the planet the women live on.

There are 50,000 islands between me and the next man,

languages as vast as the stars
that we mutter to the mercantile winds,

tears that no other civilization will know.

We beat our heads with rocks
as we stand on our islands looking out to sea.

The light of my room is a solitary place I dwell.

Would you call this existing in an atmosphere
of phosphorescent glowing

. . . a body of penis and beard and prison?

It is appearance.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

Resurrect the old ages
and improve them
before the scriptures existed.
Correct the old follies
of leaders,
of men always,
this is the case,
what a shit show is the
biological being with
ballz dangling between
his legs,

so vulnerable.

We’ve got to correct him,
the weaker sex
leading everyone astray.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin