Made Beautiful

You were made beautiful.

And I have been sent
to unmake you
so the beauty that originally
made you
can be made again in you.

You were made beautiful.
Water from a spring
for humanity.
But the metals of men
polluted you.
Though there in your skin
the water runs true.
Just when I see you
I drink you
and refresh you
with the renaissance of
yourself,
the electrification of heaven.
My sweetest blue eyes,
your eyes carry memories
of your making.
I’m quenched.
You quench thus forward.

Turned ancient sojourn of
matter from heaven to
consciousness
it’s you.

Our Ways To Death

As we fall to our death
from the sky,
30,000 feet from a crashing plane,
I embrace you,
hold you,
wrap all of myself around you
to protect you,
give every core of my body over
to providing refuge and solitude
to you in our final moments as we fall.
You kick out in anger,
in reflex,
in animalistic rebellion,
a fawn with her leg trapped in a fence,
and we split off and fall to our deaths
alone.
Me in tears and lost.
You in fear, freaked out, and fighting
ghosts who should’ve loved you.
Til the earth breaks our angelic selves
and busts the breath in our lungs
to nothing and everything else.

Why?

Why?

Is this what Sapphic love is?

We now know why civilization fails.

The best among us cannot love.

A Social Drug

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

Sleep With Books

I sleep with books.

Electricity plagues the

howlers dreams

wanting of what is shown

and things

the moment becomes

a want of one thing

then the next

the next status

celebrity

big opportunity

become be a thought leader

drill into the brain

who has noticed me.

But I shut my fucking

mouth

put away those electric screens

breathe in through the nose

heart beating calm

in a house with lots of wood

and at night

I sleep with books.

As Molt The Superlands

In the first 100 days
we welcomed you as bone

through the corridor of the white temple,

next we enter the brown one,
for era
and its sunlight.

The beige cities pass on the way
and you walk the outskirts of the crowded districts,

like tourists, you count your days there,

but harvesters with celestial migrations bring
crops, dust, and pollinators
in from the orbitals

until at the last changing of color
you throw away your ribcage,

as you no longer need it,

pressed and known into terrestrial soil,
been done and dispersed in the rain.

Clouds come and go like spaceships
for the bodies
in the journey through the temples.

SuperNations are inconsequential,
as are Kingdoms and SuperLeaders,
encoded information.

The orb is everexistent.

The word is priyama,
the body priyamay.

The deliverance has been delivered.
The breath is threshed.
The stars are ponies.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Married To A Richard I Could No Longer Love

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

Libertine-Still-Corporatist Blood

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.

When I Face The Toothbrush

When I face the toothbrush
I am scared.
Scared that I might feel uncomfortable
and choke on my tongue,
like the time when I was 22 years old
and drove down the highway alone
and choked on my tongue
in the middle of an anxiety attack
and had to grab hold of my tongue
with my hand so I wouldn’t swallow it.
Scared that this might all happen again,
that I might freak out in the middle of a meeting
and run out of the room crying.

These are the things that grown men do.

These are not the things that grown men do.

New Age religions
and business success books
teach me to never consider myself
with flaws or weaknesses,
to only accept my greatness,
never my vulnerabilities,
and never to admit to these.
Never give another person power,
control the power,
control situations,
control others.
Create your reality.
Be a white man.

I will go on vacation
to Playa del Carmen in May.
The skies will be warm and perfectly blue.
The scents of blooming flowers
and freshly made tortillas
come in through the windows.
The world will be what I want it to be.
Suffering doesn’t exist.
Who suffers?
Stop crying.
Get up and get out of here.