Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
Something by the river spooked me and
I thought about my finances.
Everyday
we’ve eaten in the kitchens of Rome
since then,
you know, Summer Funtastico over and over.
You went shopping in a furniture store.
We have those bottles of olive oil and herbs
in our home of domesticity.
The visitors come, their hearts are warmed,
the scented candles burn.
An achy knee needs a bubble bath,
Fuzzy Wuzzy.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
When the desert was outside
I dragged the dildo outside
and pointing to the South wind
I plaintively said your name,
looking at the edges of Tuscon,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.
The wet glaze on the
polyvinyl chloride phallus
became lost and muffled,
muddled with dust.
I coughed and my lungs hurt,
a lone bird chirped in the distance
towards the east,
towards the chain hotels,
the sad glow of logos,
the chain restaurants,
the generic corporate way of life
we all know.
Then,
I walked back inside to watch
Channel 8,
still mumbling to myself,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Richard leaves water
scattered
all over the bathroom counter.
Richard combs his hair
in a way I wish he wouldn’t.
When Richard opens cereal
he leaves the top of the box open,
forgets to close it all the way.
One time for my birthday
Richard forgot what I wanted.
Then when I asked him,
“Richard, could you hold me?”,
he had the nerve to say,
“Yeah, just a second, hun.”
Every time Richard uses his fork on
the butter
I hate him deeply for this,
hate him,
hate him,
hate him.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
You carve me in the ledges of your back,
I am hiding in the bronzed hills near Marathon.
It will be a long walk back to the metropolis,
that descension towards the lower lands,
scattering the hairs of dusk,
leading to good-byes across the Aegean.
Farewell ancestors of yesterday,
today I love for you, King Minos.
I will watch blue layers unfold below and above me.
I will drop my Adam’s apple.
I will thirst.
When I see you next,
I will carve your breasts
at a banquet held midday.
Fruit in our love life drips
and I wash you with it
and drink the washings.
In the silence of a white plaster room,
white lighted by sunshine and vaporous breathing,
a dance of zygote dissipates.
The age of gods and goddesses is born, lived,
and died.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)
When you leave,
when you’re away,
off sailing on aquamarine seas,
I think of your ruby sculpted
lipstick and
listen to Neko Case
by myself, alone in the human
darkness.
Does this make me a lesbian?
The hallway outside the
Chicago Nonmonogamy Conference
smelled like eggs Gascognais
and spilled wine.
That’s fine, but it’s May and
smells like this shouldn’t persist over
the flowering outside and the
fresh steamed carpet of the
conference center.
So I looked for a new lover
between the walls of beige and
carpet of gray, like the thoughts of
corporations, the smell persisted
to make me wonder what intestinal
culture existed there where the other
culture does but doesn’t exist in
some way
in our libertine-still-corporatist blood.
Do you love me so much
that if I faulted
and tried to murder you
and then
at the last second
I dropped the weapon
and you had it in your hands,
would you spare my life?
novamartinpoetry.com 