The Countenance Unto Doctor

“God having a penis.
The reasons, Dr. Morgan Rutherford;
I spent time by myself alone
and no one came.”

“And you say God has a penis?
Why can he not have problems
with his asshole?
Or, viscosity and talking lips
that ramble the fates of men?”

“But Doc, how glorious should I die
in the stillness of the countryside
with a 12-gauge shotgun
blowing my fucking brains out?
Stallions run outside.
Oak trees dream under that sky.
My parents would say ‘O my God’,
God would die with me,
would he not?”

“Well yes, yes, I am doctor.”

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Christianity, Christy

For a long time
I suffered from Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

I lived in a house on the hill.

In that house I suffered the mistrust
to believe that I suffer.

I am a candidate for pills
and evenings with pretty ladies.

There is a creation and labeling of me somewhere,

thence I take off my head and screw it
into oil cans.

I jump around and talk about tackle box
and incense holder.

I live in the house on a hill.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
antipoémus thumbnail image Antipoémus (poetry book)

Best O’ Best Bentley

All of these buildings in New York City,
for whom have they fallen?

Should we build a city for the Master Humans,
to outer space,
to Disease Central Hospital with the power of satellites?

Disease Central Hospital
is the end of the line for heaven.

The end of the line for awards and winning.

The Capital of Capitalism has synthesis
in perception and cancer

and certification circles,

a.k.a. children.

All of it
born in
D.C.H. Systems.