Tag: poems

Episode 5: Rotten Man’s Throne

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Tyler R. Martin

The fifth episode to my podcast aired today and, like all the other episodes, I was very happy with how it came out. I discussed a wide range of topics, such as individuality, spirituality, the outlaw’s war with life, the need to be combative with authority, Nietzschean philosophy, my own personal war with existence, mother nature and the existential necessity for lack of safety in pursuing enlightenment. All of this stems from a poem I wrote titled “Rotten Man’s Throne” from my first book, Rotten Man’s Throne…you can find a link to purchase it here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08541HSXH/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_9YMTS5FE2QA6D2CB04VX)

Poem and link to video included below:

Rotten Man’s Throne

Been living too long in this wild, wicked world,
With matters of mayhem and black flags unfurled.
Two decades of doldrums and dark, dog days too,
Concealing confessions, I think I owe you a few.
Been waiting too long, desperate to postpone,
As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s Throne.

The words that I ramble and put down on paper,
With each shot of bourbon all reason will taper;
And what I write, every rhyme scheme off kilter,
Smoking every cigarette down to the filter.
Nothing to do, a true poet’s always alone,
As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.

You see me, I’ve got a style all my own,
In this wicked world I’ve got a style to hone;
Tough to dress for success in a world on the brink,
And the people you meet will just drive you to drink.
Because this wicked world tends to bare all your bones
As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.

Burning out my eyes staring into the sun,
After decades of doldrums too tired to run.
I will recline, relax, and refuse to respond,
I’ll ignore the wicked world until dawn has dawned
But now, night never ends, suppose I should have known,
As I’ve been earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.

Been living too long in this wild, wicked world,
With matters of mayhem and black flags unfurled.
Two decades of doldrums and dark dog days too,
Concealing confessions, I think I owe you a few.
Been waiting too long, desperate to postpone
As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.

Episode 3: The Savage Storm

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Tyler R. Martin

The third episode to my podcast aired today and, like the introductory episode, I was very happy with how it came out. I discussed a wide range of topics, such as the family structure, spirituality, the war of life, love, my own personal family and the existential need to fight for beauty. All of this stems from a poem I wrote titled “The Savage Storm” from my first book, Rotten Man’s Throne…you can find a link to purchase it here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08541HSXH/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_9YMTS5FE2QA6D2CB04VX)

Link to the video included below, please subscribe to my channel and tell me what you think:

The War of Life

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Tyler R. Martin

From the warmth of his home, he critiques the world,
In his mind he’s a martyr, his black flag’s unfurled,
He votes with his passion, his news sources he reads
Not knowing these monsters seek to shatter his knees!
In bed with the monsters, the serpent of envy and greed,
That demonic leviathan to him it still lies and it pleads,
By indulging his fears and his pity his empathy is seized
And engage with his sympathy to spread its disease!
For each day’s a battle, in some book each day is wrote
And for those who defy this, their armies go up in smoke.

It is him who I shall watch and it’s at him I shall stare
For whose existence is resisted will decay in despair,
To resist life is pointless and this nihilism is terrible to grasp
So that fallacy becomes the cocoon of a fabricated mask!
He who is sickened by everything that knows chaos and strife
Forgets that what batters down walls will hone down his knife!
So accept the violence and chaos, man, don’t shy from life
And know that life is a war, man, please engage in the fight,
Whether in battle with gloves on or at your table to write!
For each day’s a battle, in some book each day is wrote
And for those who defy this, their armies go up in smoke.

The Bum’s Lament is now available for purchase

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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 Intro aired today!

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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!

Perhaps All Thats Pretty isn’t Pure

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Tyler R. Martin

Seeds that which from heaven fell
Have all now grown tall and
Blossomed red like flames of hell,

Blue buds blossom in hot red cinders,
Expand to meter wide maws
Of spiraling fangs and thorny fingers!-

They yawn, savage snarls to the heavens.
Thick stems grow miles high and
Ooze sweet smelling sludge which beckons!-

Prey as they approach in a tentative fashion,
Fragrant pheromones, chromatic colors
Feign the mercy of a nurturant mothers passion

And thorns, dark razor predator’s talons,
These dagger’s dense honed edges
Like savage claws of gallant onix dragons!-

Are hidden from view in a pretense of virtue,
Shielding prey in secure arching maws
As stems assume a guise of a sentinel statue!

Then, in their horrid hunger, their friendly facade fades,
Terrible thorns collapse in a crushing embrace
And their prey is shredded! By onix blades they’re flayed!

A trusting beast has perished by maddend masses
Of the fierce and gluttonous flora
Consuming those creatures so pathologically passive!-

For miles and miles these maws traverse,
Smothering landscapes in death,
Petals wilt as a poisonous pollen disperse.

Sky Fish

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Tyler R. Martin

Recline back now
Watching the fish swim in the sky
Splash me with water
Then dry up, choke and die.
Falling from the heavens
I watch them as they sail
Shriveled buggers
As the friction burns their scales.
And you know that makes me so sad
I’m lonely, wanted to hang,
They didn’t seem bad.
But when they made it, falling in fast
Straight down to me
They were nothing but ash.

What is below in the Hungry Black Maw?

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Tyler R. Martin

There’s a house at the end of the street where
All the little ghouls collude to meet and,
In plumes of smoke and cigarette ash, they
Invade the solace of a forgotten past. Where
All window panes are thoroughly smashed by
By wonton bottles of boozy glass
And the drywall bursts in thick sullen clouds of the
White plaster shrouds of those thrashes, so loud! .
These white plaster shrouds precipitating down
On scratched oak floors anticipating the sounds,
Of the words to be spoken and pentagrams drawn
In the black hope of inciting a terrible dawn!
Here the ghouls all read the Book of the Law
And call the basement below “the Hungry Black Maw” and
Scamper on down engulfed by the sound of the
Steps below creaking, in tremors they’re bound!
As below the cob webs of many a year are
Imagined to them the apex of fear! In the dark
Below, in all superb drear, the ghouls surround
In a worshiping pose, a sight so queer in tranquil repose!
The skeletal remains of the man of the house, now quiet
And still but with a lesson espoused! For the man in shambles
In the darkness below had died as he lived
And bitterly so!

But a Cell in the Beast

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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

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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.