Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
Why do the flugelhorn stars
touch so many of us?
Just a bit closer to the mountains
born across thousands of planets.
Mountains all across many homes
we look at
in the midsummer sky
remembering something
we carry in our blood.
Our eyes call out.
Joyous.
Celebratory.
Lonely.
These are gold, far off
flugelhorn stars
that
our theories of physics confirm
these
theories that made and make us.
It is through buoyant sexual azure
that I’ve changed the world,
known it, navigated it,
been changed by it.
Vibrant berry azure
on the edge of my dark brown eyes,
lustful in all those moments
when someone speaks to me,
them to me,
me to them,
feeling and knowing
this ripe berry energy.
Azure Dionysian,
as your days turn into
something closer to heaven,
lead all those to their sexuality of spirit,
their freedom.
When a social drug happenz
The people of the world unite
They gather unlike before
looking for their brother
looking for the sister inside their self
Then they put down their technology
They walk down the street
Look for people
Find a person
Then they ask for a hug
they ask for love
He’s not even my son.
He’s not my flesh and blood.
Not my species or countryman.
He can’t utter a word of human language.
And yet I love him with all my heart and soul,
every ounce of my being.
My strange genetics to his ancient, long genetics,
laid there right across the universe,
side by side in this unfathomable miracle of
the same moment in time.
I say it with courage,
I say it ready to crumble in endless
sentient, fecund melancholy…
I love you Bleuets.
Serve the house of the masters
to destroy the masters,
undo their myths.
The little, mighty cat.
On a capsule we gather.
We gather 20 trillion humans.
In this capsule to the stars we gather
yondered
fields of dust and allergens,
books of bones and markets of skins.
We shall fit between
space and time here in this capsule.
Upstairs, above,
in the city plains of Earth,
they go to lunch buffets.
Cooking oil drips down to the tunnels
where this capsule runs
with the rest of humanity gathered.
Here, in this way,
all the Universe is filled in,
mercilessly unstopping.
So should we love the collective,
or should we love the lore?
I’m wrong.
I’m full of mortality.
Portions of me
were an orange from Valencia.
Portions of me
spoke to my classmates
in an auditorium in college.
Portions of me
walked through the Agora
at midday
with pieces of billion year old
dust all around.
I’m wrong.
I’m full of mortality.
You turn your eyes away from
these words.
You’re wrong too,
opps, wrong again.
The evening sky burns pink
and orange
turning carbon particulates
into our lungs.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Dogs bark
at the sea-break,
buildings getting
taller and taller.
I guess we’re testin’ the booky,
testin’ the booky.
A philosophy teacher
once told me,
“Go out there,
and test that god-damned booky.”
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Last night came out again
in my feces again today.
Will the sunrise still rise
on burned, empty mornings?
Why has the sun continued to care
and the highjacking of planets is
only feasible, within reason?
Thus,
I drag my liver from off this porceline,
the shadows cause me whimper,
the civilizations come and go.
I pass on in shame.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Riot. Riot. Riots.
They have built a mountain out of
symbols.
A net, a web, a pedagogy of
controls.
Who was this man?
Who are the high-excluded,
the killers of the four Kennedys?
These star controllers
with patents and chipsets,
electrodes and diodes,
combines
colluding the genetic flora genomes,
oh, a far off quota
hidden in iron mountains under
different ultraviolet spectrums.
For we must be altered
so they there,
so they there can live.
Remember the Agora!
Remember the Forum!
But the riot. Riot. Riots
could stop this
if words could meet them
on the other side of the electrical
divide,
beyond the spell of electrical devices,
in their hearts out in the streets.
The riots inside of their hearts.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
I’ve gone beyond the walls,
beyond the walls of Athens
to smoke my cigarette
with the Arabs, the Africans, and Persians.
Though I go not here to
turn on Athens,
to show no one the entrance into her,
but to be with these ones as other,
to smoke with them
as brother,
in the hours of the citrus sun,
the yellow, the gold, the white, and red,
for those of us with arms and legs.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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