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Nathan Martin Poem
tempered steelheads migrating through the
shallows, their metallic scales lubricated
with penzoil two stroke motor oil.
moving over sand and rocks
some gray, some brown,
some smooth, some jagged and torn.
with alloys glistening in the summer heat
they brush up against the rivers stones to break
off the fishermens disappointment.
all those scarred gums whose fishhooked
lines caused thier lead bellies to rust.
in the muddy waters they stir,
drink to much whiskey and sink to the
river bars sandy bottom.
their rigid frames drifting through the sediment,
with heads lowered swaying
slowly like submariner zeppelins, trying to
navigate against the turbulent waters.
now these mechanical nomadic sailors keep for
themselves a tin compass in the sky filled with
memories of home.
but still they are mellow preachers
rolling and tumbling in their hardened
elements trying to find their way.
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2010
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Nathan Martin Poem
north by northen
they live in villages of 8 to 10 people,
dont pay rent and make art out of multi
colored buttons and old bent tire rims.
they have warm smiles and icicle
beards that hang down in a
furrowed eccentric mess.
they are eskimos that write with
red ball point pens and speak french
fluently. except when they slip on the
ice they may curse and cry.
thier tears freeze into crystal cathedrals
with paintings of redemption
hanging along its walls.
they redeem us all.
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2010
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Nathan Martin Poem
H
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2013
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Nathan Martin Poem
fat muncher sittin on the couch,
cheetos bag in hand.
an abstract maze of orange
cheesy dots all around him.
still he runs from the ghost
in the punchcard maze.
the nine to five arcadian
horror is what he fears most.
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2012
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Nathan Martin Poem
it is the atomic weight that matters most.
violent barbiturate toungues empty coffee cups
and deliver the insight.
before there was religion there
was foldgers dry roast.
before the lunar landing there
was instant oatmeal.
still my toungue is heavy with saliva.
i shall not lie.
it is the description that matters least.
the patient deconstruction of all
unsound perspectives.
bright and ultra bright scientific
notations fell from heaven like lightening.
the witnesses annotated cauterized edges
and spoke in the most literal sense.
before there was a mother there
was a mosaic womb.
before there was a helix faith
there was a clay parable.
still the pencil aches in the
palm of my hand.
i shall not murder.
it is the pattern that matters most.
catching low tide shells in between shallow moons.
fringed hands count down the gene pool legend,
seperated only by accented lips.
before there was a cleric in a robe
there was a tilt in the axis.
before there was a fat bellied fertility goddess
there was a splinter in a finger.
still my stomach is full of acrid
compound naratives.
i shall not want.
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2012
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Nathan Martin Poem
Broken clocks with wooden blocks
And the power is out again.
Cold burning hands lifted up with a little
sacrificial parenthetical nonsense
"Yuletide noreaster winding down"
Of course it will be cold - it always is.
And there will be red numerals flashing
in the morning.
Isaac is having his nightmares again,
Feeling like a tied down goatskin.
maybe it is just that Old Testament slang.
Some say single syllable saliva.
Some say killing time on Mount Moriah.
Now a fifth of gin in the pillowtop linen,
May be worse a sin than to kill kin.
And the blankets are tangled thickets,
The alarm clock is tuned to AM radio.
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2016
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Nathan Martin Poem
lunatic tile underneath a formica god.
he cracks at the edges.
synthetic delirium..
coptic nerve....
in his head plastic can be holy
.in his head
he bends but never breaks
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2013
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Nathan Martin Poem
such a strange sight the outsourcing of
careless myths strapped and carried
on the backs of skinny men.
gandi in a white sash with poor
handwriting tells of the ganges
languid mouth.
while not so far north of the ghetto by a
freeway overpass some were seen
gathering .
there under the lords bent gray elbow
carbon filled prophets with severe
phobia's look up to the sky and
wonder who to punish.
still the embryo's fall to the
earth in seed form first.
they have seen this sort of
thing before but their not talking.
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2012
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Nathan Martin Poem
you may think that soy is not made of metal
but i saw james hetfield filling his kettle.
full of that sh$% in the vegan isle.
so i just starred at him for awhile.
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2012
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Nathan Martin Poem
gardening back the perennial shade,
no time or reason to follow these
months into their graves.
wandering whale songs through a nantucket
wheather vain storm in the plow and bury
the fishnet parable.
a sower of seeds carries the mythic legend,
the horse drawn mantle and the weary knuckle.
but let the sea drown in its own sorrows,
for there is a harbor of stories in the dry
leaf bed of an old teacup on the porch.
the ambient light of the colodial silver
half moons, half shiverers and half
tumbles down.
an orchard of angelic promises in the
sky nurtures and gathers every wool
capped stone.
near polar latitudes along the borders
of a window pane freeze and keep out
every unknown stranger.
biblical knocking... pulling.. tears open
and lets enter the seagulls half hearted charms.
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2010
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