The Bum’s Lament is now available for purchase

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.

Waiting for a Commercial

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.

Liquor Store

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
And you…
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….

Title is: “Puke”, I Guess(in the style of Dr. Seuss)

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…

Another Cigarette

Tyler R. Martin

Light another cigarette,
The world won’t care in the morning,
Just another butt in the ashtray, another
Glob of flem in your lungs.
Light another cigarette,
The dog’s asleep on your couch,
He watches your house and he won’t mind
If you light another cigarette, and
Light one for your girl too before you wake her up
To smoke one with you and maybe crack two beers,
She’ll enjoy that, you know?
Amazing how she sleeps through the music, dog too,
But they’re used to it and a nocturnal man needs his nicotine,
His muses and his music, all at maximum volume.
Light another cigarette and
Type out a poem at two in the morning,
Two in the morning is undoubtedly a poet’s time,
Its unavailable to the cogs of society, so we snach it up
And light another cigarette without the slightest inclination
To go to sleep in the immediate future.
So you finish your beer…then finish hers…
You light another cigarette and look out the window.
If you’re lucky you’ll see the sky and the smoke looks so pretty
Against the star peppered abyss of heaven.
So light another cigarette and sigh,
“Perhaps, if I am lucky,
I’ll do this every night
Until I die.”

Madness, So Mundane

Tyler R. Martin

Asking yourself what lies within
Winter fields and all that freezes in the storm, or
Perhaps burns in horrid heat, floods, drowns, or
Withers with age and decays under pain of time, or,
Drinks and smokes and fights over status disputes, or,
Reads to find reason and understand the empty void, or,
Revels in the combat against self and man and nature, or,
Becomes sickened by the gross anomaly of existence, or,
Breaks down in a grand display welled up from years, or,
Gives up and self inflicts a gunshot wound to the head, or,
Chain smokes for days on end without eating anything, or,
Breaks knuckles against the wall in puffs of white plaster, or,
Writes a poem about apathy and contempt for existence, or,
Drives too fast in a rainstorm with road beers and crashes laughing, or,
Admiring winter fields and all that freezes in the storm, or
Learning not only to live with hangovers but to enjoy them, or,
Trying to figure out what it means to really “live”, or,
Trying to figure out what it means to really “die”, or,
To die “nobley” and wondering what that even means, or,
Large swaths of star speckled skies over the desert, and,
Is there still a meaning to things arcane? Or,
Has all madness become mundane?

Incredible writer’s podcast

Recently, I was lucky enough to have appeared on (@Young_blackbird) Megha Upadhyaya’s incredible podcast It’s Never Too Late!

Below you’ll find some links. Thanks and enjoy!

https://podcasts.google.com/?feed=aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy8yNmNlMTA1MC9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw&ep=14&episode=NjE0MjhhYzMtYmFkNi00MDQ3LWEyMmYtY2MwN2QzNDAyZjU0&pe=1&pep=0

https://podcasts.google.com/?feed=aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy8yNmNlMTA1MC9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw&ep=14&episode=NjE0MjhhYzMtYmFkNi00MDQ3LWEyMmYtY2MwN2QzNDAyZjU0

https://podcasts.apple.com/in/podcast/s3e19-finding-essence-poetry-art-literature-ft-tyler/id1519276842?i=1000500684284

Hangovers

Tyler R. Martin

(looking for some feedback)

Hangovers, in a realistic sense,
Are God’s revenge and your penance.
For any fun you may have had
Is then reversed, correspondingly bad.
When the following day in pain you awake
God has equaled out your little break!

For, as his creations, we do imbibe,
That, which from his fruits, we have derived,
Which He Himself in His wisdom made,
It would then seem to imbibe he bade,
This magic substance to warp our minds
And to consume till all are blind!

So is it not wrong for Him to tempt?
Should we not therefore be exempt?
Can a liquid of sin still feel devine?
Could not it be argued to drink’s a shrine?
Or should we abstain, fear and lament,
Our God above and His contempt!

So if He is to sit upon a throne of law,
Then to me, this must be, really something more.
For if this isn’t cruelty, who then is the judge?
Was it not He, as He be, to give us all the nudge?
If not, then to you I must concede,
That He’ll be there to judge and glare in times of dire need!