Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
The slaves have gone.
Euripedes, Thucycles;
the slaves have not gone.
The slaves have left their
robes and linens.
Their guitars and banjos
are leaning on the fence.
The slaves take down
the senator’s eye
and in place
put in the olive seed.
They eat and sleep in
the commoners’ homes,
the track houses and
cheap apartments,
not starting a revolution
that starts a revolution.
The slaves.
In the middle of the night I awake
to the smell of bacon and eggs in the air.
The people of the world
are outside on the lawn cooking bacon and eggs
for the President of the United States.
The United States military is standing all around them,
pointing guns at them
while they cook bacon and eggs for the President.
They give him the eggs of their daughters,
their ovaries for an American football match,
a contest of strength.
The President is the Signifier of Penis.
This sentence is the signifier of rape.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
The civil clerk is a good person
and usually is anyways
good
left up to others
to take care of tasks
would nothing become
someone else’s job is for Sunday
or some day of learning
does until done
what is needed on a morning
all parents die
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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
Not to masturbate
for lovers long gone
I learned there that night
shooting my semen into the river.
My heart was beating.
The moon was her boobies.
She held my brow.
My semen bubbled, foamed-up,
and drifted away.
I write the Senate Commissioner’s Bill.
My penis hangs low
on the banks of the Potomac.
I’m an inside traitor.
The cattail wavers. I go away
through the darkness
commissioned at the end of
the last century.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Hierarchal Order
Rulers
Dominion
Eloquent Poetry
Penises
Non-Inquisitive Loyalty
Subservitude
Individual Wealth
My-Way-Or-The-Highway
Narrative
Symbolic Order
Ownership Of Resources
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
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
We took drugs,
we charged on the military.
The military filed reports
saying
“you can’t charge on the military.”
The President filed reports
stating
there was a new war against the military.
CNN covered stories exonerating
War Machines.
It was opened a
Henry Kissinger School for Diplomacy.
It was a four for one sale, Margaret.
We loosened our diapers and
played with our doo-doo.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
I found myself looking for people
when
the world had locked them away
and privatized them.
Put them in beige boxes to do
their work everyday from
eight a.m. to five o’clock p.m.
Placed them in orderly housing,
turned on the TV for them to
stare into and
handed them bills and mortgages
to adhere to.
Driving their Ford trucks and Chevy’s.
I looked in the forests,
over grasslands,
under real skies, clean air,
with the ancestral stars at night.
I looked and no one was there,
learning the anthem of the cosmos,
the form
of the human
that is being,
the kind of consciousness suspended
in time.
No,
I looked and they were watching TV.
They’re getting married.
They’re doing something that’s never done.
They’re having children.
They’re approaching pinnacles of life.
They’re buying batteries.
They’re doing what anyone can do.
They’re doing nothing.
They’re fixing food in the microwave.
They have a job.
They’re alone.
They’re sometimes cowards.
They impress management.
It’s not their fault.
They’re doing nothing.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
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