Let Darkness

Let darkness be
but gentle
the soul of my girl in the world
my soul made in the mold of
a woman.
Let darkness speak
in nonchalance with light
I sit there,
watching and also feeling
the sunset on my skin.
These good equilibriums,
well then let them
crown, but crown no one,
let me be one queen of humanity
amongst a billion.
Let those algorithms alone
and let them write the treatise
of this poem
until the Thracian plebeian ladies
live free
with their parmesan flakes
outside
by the farmhouse.

Azure Dionysian

It is through buoyant sexual azure
that I’ve changed the world,
known it, navigated it,
been changed by it.

Vibrant berry azure
on the edge of my dark brown eyes,
lustful in all those moments
when someone speaks to me,
them to me,
me to them,
feeling and knowing
this ripe berry energy.

Azure Dionysian,
as your days turn into
something closer to heaven,
lead all those to their sexuality of spirit,
their freedom.

Five Thousand Mornings

The bridegroom hopes
in the morning
under stars.

The peacock stirs.
The songbirds yet sing.
The metal to become the ring
still in the ground.
The stars turn around.
Is it be blue or gold
they bring?
Sun-veiled rainy skies
or the eyes and hair
of a Germanic maiden
against the side of his dark skin,
five thousand
mornings forward.

The day turns.
The songbirds have to sing.
And time now his only companion.
The bridegroom becomes a master.
One part man.
One part woman.

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.

To My Parents, The Baby Boomers

I know we don’t agree on much.
Y’all think God has a penis.
I don’t think God even has genitals.
And if he did, he would have a vagina.
A big, boundless, life-giving,
life-affirming, endlessly sweet-smelling
vagina.
It would smell like a brand new, pristine
recently constructed corporate conference room
that someone had poured the finest
Tupelo honey all over,
with that scent of blessed sunshine coming in
through the windows at midday.
But,
regardless of our disagreements and y’alls
views on God’s gender and genitals,
y’all did the right thing by voting for
Joe Biden.
Especially considering
that y’all had previously voted for Donald Trump
back in 2016.
I’m glad you were able to see what a
pathetic, corrupt, poser, loser,
petulant, bully, child he is.

Slowly On The Spaceship You Finger Me

Slowly on the spaceship you finger me.

I look out to all the worlds,
I see the Orion nebula.

I realize suddenly I am a man
and you are fingering my asshole,

you are making me feel like a woman —
there is warmth and stars before us.

You devoid my heroic masculinity.
You are a woman and have a vagina.

If I was a more cowardly person
I could not admit this,
say a politician,
a banker,
or a soldier perhaps.

I take on certain things,

for this is my will on this voyage.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin