Wiring Around My Heart

In the pet store
two hours after we had sex
a wry smile breaks on my face.
I think about savoring and tasting,
taking in your pussy and your soul,
your moans that release
your need for control
for a moment.
It’s a real pleasure to do that to you.
I can still taste you in my mouth,
breathe you in my nose.
Just the thought of it.
eases my blood pressure,
makes me feel like I’m on vacation.
It rivets my soul.
Makes me know that I’m a woman.
To be a woman is soulful.
Now on aisle twelve
I grab the prescription food
for my sixteen year old
gray-blue kitty cat.
I’m a good cat mom.
I love that little fucker so much.
The two of you
have wiring all around my heart.

Lesbian Kiss In Capitalism

God, your lips.
Wait, not that “god”.

Just your lips.

In lesbian love
with each other,
ripped that masculinity
from the Aegean
in ancient times,
they did
on some days, in some regions.

Then why not now?

Why can’t the air be ours?

Or why not the fruit trees by the
weathered windows from Naples?

Why is winter always judged?

Your lips do this thing to me
when the hearth fire burns,
endless rains fall from the sky,
and my bones feel cold, mineral,
and hollow.

Your lips; slain, succulent and laid out
in my mind across everyday for
the rest of living,
similar to sunrises
in so many collected mortal eons.
They uplift a TV repair shop
in Oregon,
upholding what must be heaven.

They turn from smooth beige
and melt into translucent metal.
Do they?
They do.
They melt my flower.

Become Blues Singer

God asked me
one day when Peter was off in the fields
enduring mosquito bites,
“Why don’t you fall in love with men?”
And I answered,
“Because, men are not made in your image.

Women are.”

I taught God a lesson.
Now he brings wedding gifts,
turtledoves,
to the lesbian weddings.
I bring silk and tongue in the failure
of my appearance.
And then I walk off, continue to walk with
a head of brown hair and
brown facial hair
and brown pubic hair.

Now, God has taught me a lesson.
I must become blues singer,

love my guitar.

The Greens Of Prolmama

The Greens Of Prolmama
that place by the sunglasses store on Sunset Blvd
has helped a lot of cancer survivors get that way
You’ve been that way with your teeth
to stop and turn to the mountain
it makes us look that way
the way we look when there’s just too much
Cowboys riding into the future from the past on a spaceship
or an ion generation device
They make nice clothing at least for the persons who want
to look like that
The Greens infuse my chest cavity
so I look up to see Andromeda’s aftermath
and the aftermath is ignored by all the mammals and the reptiles
unless there’s fire
we’re then drawn outward
to a journey that takes a long long time
I could count the plastic in the toy store
or a municipal dump all for an afternoon to remember now
when we kissed as men reading the Bible

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Letter To A Statue

This is the phone number
for the gatekeeper of Althesius,
(555) 484-1123.
He is an excellent fisherman.

Althesius is a gated seaport.
Very odd,
but since the conquest of Xerxes
we have feared other invasions,
except the sunrises
and the bronzing that it does to
our morning smiles.

We eat grapes in the morning, freshly harvested,
bathe in the sea,
listen to the cries of the homosexual waves
on the homosexual sea-nymphs.
The sunlight touches them: they are brethren.

“Come with me
and I
will make you
fishers
of men.”

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
lovers of the century thumbnail image
Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)

Autonomies Not Spoke

It is the night of the Prix-et South.
Women all over the city
get together and have sex
in groups of five.
The fifth woman being linear with Saturn,
her legs spread
with the left knee pointing to Pentheus
and the right one pointing to Intortium.
Here
is placed the crown of the tongue
and
lifts them all into liberation.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin