Progeny Wasted

Shooting my semen into
a five day old cup of tea,

I will do this if I like.

Sitting on my desk,
it blends together
and begins to mold.

I live as the ancient Chinese did.

Pouring this cup into the toilet
and flushing it down the drain
while no one is looking,

I will do this if I like.

An act of autonomy on my part
before
the jealous gods.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Sacrifice Ye Ancestoroid

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

Target Department Store Poem

Before humans I’ve passed,

it’s light from an afternoon
shone

the muscles and fat that have made
the day’s echo

asleep with my silence under trees
in a yard.

In the human way I’ve had eyes,

counted days without a parent,

tongues without a language

and architecture sheltering tribes.

From what point on the calendar
have they come,
they do not know,

but they have trailed home
to cells of containment and electricity.

These are provided . . . these are provided.

And the satellites we don’t count,

we do not see the great migration
and the accords of ownership.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

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.