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.
Tag: masculinity
No man can survive on peanut butter, bread,
cereal and milk.
“No man is an island.”
No man alone can make a family.
Every man is a worker,
in some crummy sense.
The Commandant of Baby Boomer says,
“Every man for himself”.
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
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
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
Semen and scorpions.
We gotta do this.
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
Mankind has a penis.
: A woman has 2 penises.
God has designed Woman
to carry 2 erect penises on
her chest.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
As a daughter I will make her isolate,
stern,
I will make her as St Kilda
so that no government, ideology
or
paradigm of oppression may enslave her.
The approach to the sea will only be defined
by her hours,
her journey into the light and mist
and back again,
whatever blue skies she shall scatter,
shall be scattered.
Whatever buckets of rain are brought,
the buckets shall be loved
in storm and sunshine.
We will kiss the mossen land
and this will be her kingdom in the new
epoch of Man.
Thus all ideologies fall and the
cult of the Moloch,
the cult of masculine insecurities withers
. . . there, on the outskirts of islands.
“His family was wealthy.”
What this means is often that
his father had a penchant
for putting objects up his ass,
not “his” ass, but his father’s
own ass.
I’m not sure why, but about
80% of wealthy patriarchs
have a thing for putting
things up their ass.
Maybe it is another way for them
to consume more and more,
as much as possible of the world.
Their appetite is voracious and
most of us want to be like them,
the wealthy patriarch, putting
things up our ass.
It’s true, we do.
Most of them have diamond or
at least cubic zirconia encrusted
butt plugs.
But us, most of us, we don’t.
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