But a Cell in the Beast

Tyler R. Martin

While all around the protests scream,
Wood signs swing in thick fog of mace,
A murderous mob’s collective fangs gleam
Upon a single, mangled, stupid face.
Fires ravage a business built by many a year,
In minutes eaten, blackened from within;
In one Body, no single Cell harbors fear,
Nor does a single Cell bear collective sin.

No one Cell gathers any guilt from the smoke,
Just a collective Body warmed happily by heat,
While pests within structures flee and choke
And amass upon the carnage of the street.
In tribal masks the Cells upon pavement dance
Upon these streets in a primitive display.
Around the fires their Body’s Shaman prance
As the infidel contagion look on in stark dismay.

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.

Midnight Mourning

Tyler R. Martin

I hear her start at midnight, weeping,
And I hear her all night long,
It’s a dreary tune of heartbreak,
A bitter, sweet and sickly little song.

She begins with a sigh
(Quietly I sit and hear her so clear)
And says to no one “goodbye”
-”I shall love you forever, why did you have to die?

Then from deep within a shattered soul
A symphony begins its sway,
With first a tearful little sonnet
Of loss, death and dismay.

Then her soul emits the main event,
A tear stained face out the opened window gaze,
The weeping for just a moment halts
As she contemplates a leap into the waves

But the window shuts with a slam;
The sweet thing loses nerve
And the weeping once more comence
For life doles her more than she deserve.

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….

The Cardinal in my Yard

Tyler R. Martin

The cardinal in my yard won’t sing
He just stares.
He stares blankly at nothing while I stare
Blankly at him.
It’s cold in January in New York
And my grandfather’s grapevine
On which he sits is bare and branches
Shiver in the breeze.
Nothing moves in my backyard today
Aside from an infrequent neck twitch when
The cardinal hears something.
He stays very still but the bright red is
Nothing but a beacon in the dull brown
of the grape vine.
Good for getting laid, I suppose,
But a bad target nevertheless.
He puffs his feathers in the cold
And I watch him and
I think we’re both wondering the same thing,
That is:
When the predator finally comes down on you
Is that day worse than any other?
Simultaneously sicked by this thought
The cardinal flew away and I put my
Boots on to go to work.

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…

New Chucks

Tyler R. Martin

I bought new Chucks a week ago
And now they’re dirty.
The white had sparkled and glimmered,
The black was stark, rich and deep,
The laces, pristine as fresh fell snow.
But now they’re dirty.
Now the white is grass stained green
And the laces dulled with dust
And stark black has surrendered
It’s rich deep dark to the elements.
A week ago I bought new Chucks,
And the world
Has made them dirty.

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.”

Just…Wreckage

Tyler R. Martin

Life is more a second to second, day to day, drink to drink,
Mood to mood, cigarette to cigarette type of deal with way, way
Too many variables for any kind of long to term plan.
Today I drove up on a car, two cars actually, splintered and savaged
In collision of scattered steel and warped plastic as if the two cars
Were melded into one fiery display of wreckage and carnage and blood.
The passengers, all of whom were burnt to a blazing crisp,
Were being carted away like slaughtered livestock in black body bags.
It was early, the sun was just rising and the sirens stirred the cold,
Crisp morning air. Both sets of vehicles were on their way somewhere
To go do something with some other people. Planning their day
Their week, their year, the rest of their waning lives.
They were moving forward onto the future, willfully blind
To the metaphorical brick wall boldly awaiting interception,
They never would have known it but
Hell
They shoulda just stayed
Home

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?