mythology – novamartinpoetry.com

Yes, Different Places Together

Make us separate at dawn,
again your skin tone has turned
to the sunset’s wheat.
We are dried goods on different ships
… I’ll admit
my crew would trade me for you.

Fall with the sea-spray
on the sand of your back.
My mud has hardened
for the tractors to crush underneath
the chores
of a construction worker’s morning.
They are building another
award-winning hotel
for you to sleep in —
your affairs with the sundown.

You, in a grown woman’s body,
have forgotten the nursery rhymes
of your father,
but an older father blessed you
with lips of grapes and beliefs of vine,
so I watch you
give foliage to rocks,
to un-named planets,
so these stars above lose their names
in the death of naive civilizations.

Cassiopeia spilled her secrets
to the bureaucrats of God and the
scientists at Bell Labs
… so as they did in another galaxy,
they will do us in.

Poems

Shah Jahan

“His Majesty Shihab ud-Din Muhammad Shah Jahan, the King, Warrior of the Faith, may God perpetuate his dominion and sovereignty”.

God doesn’t perpetuate dominion.
There is only one dominion.
The dominion of ALL.

God?
God flips over leaves,
folds them,
crushes them,
turns them to dust to the wind.
To this, they are gone.
They are off,
off to be something else.
Now, are they even themselves anymore?
Or one in the same with the ALL.
As they always have been.
Not their dominion.
Not your dominion.
Just dominion. One dominion.
ALL.
No sins, no lords, no losers, no winners.
ALL.

For tender human,
stuck in dichotomies, insecurities,
and powerlust,
God doesn’t perpetuate dominion.
There is only one dominion.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Lovers Of The Century, Poems

Moustache, Sunglasses, Ball-cap, Dandruff

On Sunday, June 19th,
Jesus Christ
will be preaching
his stuff
at
your local Waffle House.
Complimentary
blood grits
will be served.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:

Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)

Poems

Battleship Nachos

Everyday
I count the battleships

Many more, many more do come

In your backyard we eat potato chips

The grey hulls show on water
as if like instruction manuals at night

We cut our hair
to celebrate the information . . . their information

I’ve left the canned chili in the cupboard on purpose

Rodger God comes for the blueprints

And we continue to count many more specks,
many more
on the horizon

We have to hide the information from
they hid theirs from us

You know, the fucked up eyes and fingers

Let us break those fingers and plant the turquoise
in the ground
for the squirrels to love in spring

Go there now in Corvettes,
GMAC Financing has zero percent A.P.R.

Go to the big big bay to see

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

Poems

The Historian

Andre The Giant announced the new realism –
contextualism,
while Academians worked to validate the status quo.
Andre The Giant died on the Twenty-Ninth of January
Nine-teen Ninety Three.
To some he was known as The Gentle Giant.

The liquors we drank in the House of Prin,
for our predecessors some of them French,
we drink and continue ‘til every sunrise
the fiesta of our livers,
united by the way your mouth and children want things,
like gift certificates and save the rain forest.
We observe.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

Abercrombie & Fitch Equations

We’re here
on the outside
close to clean air.
The green, blue, and gray air.
The beige tones in between.
The air of reds and greens
and browns in the colder
times of year.
The shifting things you want;
we’ve got them.
We shift them.
We shift you.
You want luxury, vacations,
wealth, and freedom.

We’ve got you.
You’re in our eyes;

your hope, your money.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

Autonomies Not Spoke

It is the night of the Prix-et South.
Women all over the city
get together and have sex
in groups of five.
The fifth woman being linear with Saturn,
her legs spread
with the left knee pointing to Pentheus
and the right one pointing to Intortium.
Here
is placed the crown of the tongue
and
lifts them all into liberation.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Poems

The Countenance Unto Doctor

“God having a penis.
The reasons, Dr. Morgan Rutherford;
I spent time by myself alone
and no one came.”

“And you say God has a penis?
Why can he not have problems
with his asshole?
Or, viscosity and talking lips
that ramble the fates of men?”

“But Doc, how glorious should I die
in the stillness of the countryside
with a 12-gauge shotgun
blowing my fucking brains out?
Stallions run outside.
Oak trees dream under that sky.
My parents would say ‘O my God’,
God would die with me,
would he not?”

“Well yes, yes, I am doctor.”

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin