Watching The Port In Angel Land

I’ve seen the young girls
these days.
She will go far and wide,
as the old saying goes.
She has lovely hips.
I wish I had them,
but oh well,
shit is what it is.
We all go on our sailings.
Some stay in port.
I still really love her,
watching her sip her
Mexican soda with a straw
through her lipgloss lips.
I wonder about her journeys
ahead.

Angel Land to LBD

They call it lesbian bed death,
that is what I’m living,
from the highest highs of Angel Land
to the lows of being left alone and neglected.
I don’t have all those “real” woman parts
so it makes sense that
no “real” woman who’s a lover of “real” women
would want to touch me and my odd parts.

I know there’s one woman out there
who is an authentic sapphic
who wasn’t molested or abused by a man,
or who is not grossed out by the male parts
or who doesn’t only lust singularly for woman parts
… who will love me as a woman,
and adore and cherish me for my femme self,
tend to me like the flowers of Spring.

I know there’s one woman out there

… maybe one.

To get to Angel Land from LBD
you turn left in the shadows of the summer night
and lay waiting in the stillness of darkness,
alone with a partner in bed,
bearing fecund hope in your firm, perky
hormonal breasts,
sometimes with tears pooled softly in your eyes
as your breathe lost into sleep.

Love As A First Time Lesbian

Sometimes there’s love.
Sometimes it goes away.
Sometimes I’m waiting again.
Sometimes I try another day.

Sometimes I return.
Sometimes I stay.
Sometimes the sex
makes my mind a spiritual kind of place.

Sometimes there’s madness.
Sometimes it’s divine.
Sometimes there’s hurt.
Sometimes it’s just fine.

Sometimes I lose my faith.
Sometimes I have to pray.
Though always I know I’m gay.
And always I can’t let go,
as weak or strong that is
to admit to say.

Yeah, this love is weak and strong.
There’s no veneer.
No going through the motions.
Yes, there’s weak.
And there’s also strong.
Right here all along.
This ain’t no hetero kind of nonsense,
trying to keep up appearances for
society or family.

This love is weak and strong.
Grab my wrists babe, lead me on.

[For National Poetry Month, why not celebrate, shine light on, and be real about Sapphic love? 🤷🏻‍♀️]

Five Hundred & Forty-Five Mornings

One of these days you’ll
not wake up
and all the people you will
have ever loved
will be dead.

Tell me that is not the way towards love.
Rather,
show me that won’t come true
for you.
Show me.

Show me little things matter.
That they’re here.
That you’re here, alive.
Not just waiting for moments
of love to pass,
to pass on,
to be something without you
or to be something with
only you and you alone.

Come touch my sensual body and
my passionate soul
here in the morning,
the 6,540th morning you have left
on this earth.
For if you touch it
once every 12 days
that means you have
545 mornings left to touch me.

If you touch it,
death holds off on its road to the stars
for one less moment.

Make me some kind of sentient lover.
Am I a seraphim again?
Let me be made as a woman.
Find me a woman.
Bring her tongue to my nipples.

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.

Solaris Hymn 40

This mortal earth
aside
the millionaire denies it,
the egotist claims her
and in missing the light,
shadows,
and calculus
of Solaris,
the revelation of suffering
avoids them.

So they only pass,
leaving unloved children
to repeat their wrath
and continue
the cycles of mortals.

O hold up you high
Piraeus’ glass at midday
and know
the wealth of nothingness.

Socrates is there
with wild hair
on the bed made by slaves
still dreaming.

Sappho is dead, just dead.
Her corpse wrapped in
loins.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

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