The Herald Of Angel Land

Angel Land is not a place.

Angel Land is found.

Be a woman, then it’s pronounced.

The love of women.

Holding them. All of them.
All forms. All shapes. All bodies.
All colors.

And to be held by them.
From behind.
Chest to chest.
On our sides.
Quietly, judgment is held
when talking,
no judgment.
Just sunshine coming in
from the window
onto the softest of skin
in the morning
and warming.

Angel Land is in life,
in these hours,
on this Earth.

Angel Land turns the eras.
Calls all angels.
We are gathered.
God is coming.
We come.
We replace God,
the fatherly god.
We give God to everyone
who sees us,
hears us,
hates us,
embraces us.

Angel Land is the era.

Fasting Before Silence

I awake day after day
with the Pentecostal damage

Slowly rehydrating my blood
each morning
the world grows
the past keeps pulling

The arguments of forefathers
alive in my muscles

Ignorance dwells in me
in the house of the human

Though I proceed forward
vaporizing my spirit in the
desert of the later morning
light

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

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

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

Emilia, But Death

How can I not distaste the grass?
The toilet house built for the solitary traveler
on the road from Napoli to Messina,
the dust kicking up its memories of bones,
my sandals of cow-leather
flavored with the apprehensions of the slaughterhouse,
the retreat of a slave girl from her owner
to the East, the Ionian Sea,
across the plains, up to Olympus,
to track down Jove, to kick his fucking ass.

My Daughter As An Isolated Island

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.

Gilgamesh Anno Domini

I kill God today,
“Odd”, it said my father,
“You live, but not in the House of Vacations.”
The jungle we can bend
with the credit cards we’ve rented
to make it to L.A.,
the journey to the Capitol
of the Good-life’s consciousness.
To see God bathe
as He who has His form and penis.
The Murderers by His pool!
By His devoted architecture!

“Odd”, it said my mother,
you live but not in my house,
for you, my son, have killed God today.

Our Father, The Anal

“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.