Le Psychedelic

Barbara Schley blowing out bubbles
on the bottom of a swimming pool
lit by red light gleaming,
I have been there.
Oh Barbara baby.
Sea nymphs swimming in
a future aquatic Mars’ ocean.
Been there too.
Talking to walls
myself I did share with nothing
and crumbled,
bumbled,
found my way back.
Or another way,
a way of a moment.
That is my way,
our way,
these ways together,
a language of heaven,
here in our skin.
We die. Live. Die. Live.
Every single second.
A universe shorn and unshorn.
God. Righteous. Mystery.

Consciousness Misunderstood

Consciousness comes in
and it pours into us

Like the surf rolling in

And it ripples and riptides

Crustaceans and sunshine fumble

Pebbles mix and carbon replaces

And that consciousness never dries up

It wades and bays

Then it withdraws
leaving
an imprint
that lasts a billion years
and
is then replaced with something infinite

holistic, continuous,
individual when needed
and squarely incomprehensible

I mean, everlasting

You are
I was
We now

I love you Leslie

I Loved The Sun

I loved the sun
from a window that had been made
by the sun.
What’s calling done?
The call of my hope at the sun
through a window
made by a billion years
of mineral toiling.
What’s calling done?
Nothing is done.
So I long and hope as an object
calling home
around a star
I must have come from
in some form,
looking at myself,
in some form,
distant, calling, now alone.

As Molt The Superlands

In the first 100 days
we welcomed you as bone

through the corridor of the white temple,

next we enter the brown one,
for era
and its sunlight.

The beige cities pass on the way
and you walk the outskirts of the crowded districts,

like tourists, you count your days there,

but harvesters with celestial migrations bring
crops, dust, and pollinators
in from the orbitals

until at the last changing of color
you throw away your ribcage,

as you no longer need it,

pressed and known into terrestrial soil,
been done and dispersed in the rain.

Clouds come and go like spaceships
for the bodies
in the journey through the temples.

SuperNations are inconsequential,
as are Kingdoms and SuperLeaders,
encoded information.

The orb is everexistent.

The word is priyama,
the body priyamay.

The deliverance has been delivered.
The breath is threshed.
The stars are ponies.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

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

A Heart Of Elasticity

I’m building a heart,
building a heart,
building a heart of elasticity.

With olive oil, heartbreak,
stress and disease,
smoking and running,
failure and fiendism,
I’m building a heart of
elasticity.

A net of the universe,
a fabric of breath,
a bender of molecules,

I build a new heart
and the old heart
inside of me,
the same singing heart
and the super-heart ringing
in the net
of the beat.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Above Calypso’s Sea

There was an island here
that held my carnal desires.

When shadows showed
on the cavern walls
from the fire
I ate them.
I fucked them.

Tumbling into the night.
Twisting close to stars.
Not quite celestial.
Not earthen.
Not there in one way
or another.

Between happiness,
long forseen in the world
of the future,
allured and drunk.

But the old winds came,
brought a priestess
to take me to the coasts of the humans,
so I could see
their achievements and failings,
their temples and refuse,
then
I could see myself
in the words I’ve written and others
who write in me
at the wooden table
in the daylight and the midnight
that
completes the verse of the wave . . .

the one, one wave.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin