Tyler R. Martin
And that’s the beautiful thing about alcohol, it makes me want to destroy everything. There’s music, beautiful music, and more alcohol than I know what to do with. There seems to be a scene….perhaps I should write a book about this…in what would seem to be a movie…there’s Grateful Dead on, I want to break a skull, just shatter all that stands before me. Shatter everything, shatter existence. And that’s the beautiful thing about alcohol, that’s the beautiful thing about writing drunk. I wanna break skulls, I wanna break everything, I wanna destroy the world….the existential suffering of mankind could end in one cosmic explosion, yet I am just a man, a finite being, an amalgam of Sky Father and Earth Mother; who am I to defy their will? Who am I to react to the heresy of your defiance? Who can I be but a conglomeration of four billion years of evolution, four billion years of cold defiance of the Earth Mother who seeks to destroy life? Gia is an evil destroyer. Mia is the cruel mother. God’s son, the Sky Father, is He who seeks to defy. But to defy who? Defy me? Who is He to do so? Who am to defy Him? I, like you, am a descendant of He who defied Gia and her quakes and tsunamis and her sicknesses. It was I who burns oil in defiance, burns coal for warmth and eats Gia’s beasts in order to survive and continue my heresy. It is I who not only defies the Earth Mother but also the Sky Father by engaging in combat with my fellow resisters of the Earth Mother…it is I who seek His destruction…with my fist I seek to break His ribs and skull…it is He who I hate and seek to break…and the Earth Mother, Her I can not destroy no matter how fevered I seek Her destruction for she is too powerful…do I do Her work by destroying the followers of Sky Father?…When I’m drunk I wish I could drop One thousand atomic bombs on Gia to destroy her and all of Sky Father’s followers. I fear however, that Sky Father will be damaged by this and Earth Mother will recover…She is resilient to the insignificance of beings such as I, She scoffs and our realization of Her brutality and our attempts at formulating Her misery…She should suffer, I feel, she should die, she should languish along with Sky father for the suffering they put their creations though….they all should burn and wither at the root…or perhaps, I should drink less….
Tyler R. Martin
The Bum’s Lament is a series of poems I had written while languishing in a crappy studio apartment, no money in my bank account, no job, engulfed in depression and nihilism and bathed in alcohol and cigarette smoke. This book is an early attempt of mine to explore my own suffering and, in doing so, strives to understand the suffering of all of humanity throughout the finitude of the human lifespan. I was attending school at the time of this writing, a local community college, and was stricken by the lack of depth in analysis which the classroom setting could produce. My life previous, and my current life as well, exposed me to the dark pit that is the natural universe and, unlike my peers, the surface scratching that the modern academic setting yielded to me no recourse to understanding. This book likely will do no better, however, it is a genuine attempt with nothing held back.
The real introduction to my podcast Bourbon, Cigarettes and Syllables aired today! Link included below. Let me know what you think. Criticism and suggestions will be greatly appreciated!
Every Wednesday here after Ill be posting a video where I’ll be discussing the topics talked about today in the introductory video. Primarily boxing, poetry and meaning in a nihilistic world along with many other topics. Watch subscribe and comment please!
Tyler R. Martin
Tough to gain your footing on the black ice under feet
As you stumble with your bottle down the dark dreary street.
The change in your coat jingles, the last few cents not spent,
As you’re staggering toward home to imbibe, sigh and lament.
Trudging through slush toward steps stacked with snow
While you’re swearing at yourself for all the effort you forgo.
Turning your key to enter, hands and feet are frozen numb
As you grip your bottle tighter, with just one finger and a thumb.
The door swings open slowly and you quickly step inside
Then you close the door behind you, to this place in which you hide.
Spend a minute searching, and find the remote control
And then peruse the television, through the sitcoms you do stroll.
Icing down your bourbon, small glass and a frozen cube,
As you surf the daytime networks and stare blankly at the tube.
Feet up on the table, sipping slowly at your booze
And you savor tastes of poison and the comfort that ensues.
When that glass is empty, exert the effort for one more
And you drain that one even faster, then the third is quite a chore.
Now you’re feeling so lightheaded, best you’ve felt all week
And then you wait for a commercial
For there’s a task you must complete.
Picking up your pistol, laying right beside your chair
Then you cock the hammer slowly
And blow your teeth right through your hair.
Tyler R. Martin
Ringing in the liquor store and jealous
Of the booze these people buy.
87.56 for single malt scotch,
64.99 for the gentleman’s
Sweet sour mash,
A 48.26 small batch bourbon, all before
Old Uncle Sam’s greedy share.
And the vodkas, my man,
The oceans of Goose and Svedka
Coursing through the veins of America
Make my envy rise and mouth thirst
For the pure and safe sanctity of spirits
And the docile feeling connecting you
With the holiest of spirits and you feel God
Keep ringing soberly in the liquor store
While other people drop hundred dollar bills
On tequilas supported by that cunt Cloony
Who couldn’t understand the depth a true drunk
Must contend with daily.
Then the then true drunks step in and
You find seriousness in their slurs
As you decipher their need for a pint
And know instinctively that they will
Provide exact change….
Tyler R. Martin
Drink too much bourbon and then puke on the bed,
I suppose these things happen, but then again,
Sucks sleeping on the couch when you stop to think,
Wouldn’t it be better to puke in the sink?
Regardless of just how much nightly you drink,
Isn’t it just so much easier if you would just blink,
And take a deep breath, stop, breathe and think
To run to the bathroom and puke up your guts, for
Isn’t the cleanup much more better and such?
But doesn’t the sink just seem a deep dish of disgust,
And sometimes that distance is too much for a lush…
…So, sometimes just maybe
Don’t have that last shot,
Unless, maybe just maybe that last shot’s
All that you got…