Episode 9: Lonely Dog

Tyler R. Martin

The ninth episode to my podcast aired today and, like all the other episodes, I was very happy with how it came out. If you missed the previous episodes, due to the fact I was too lazy to post them, you can find them by clicking the YouTube link on my home page. In this video I discussed a wide range of topics, from censorship to the battle of ideas, religion and collectivism vs. individualism. Hopefully my thoughts will be received in a manner in line with my actual intentions. Per usual, I elaborate on my ideas concerning 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 “Lonely Dog” from my second book “Midnight Mourning”…you can find a link to purchase it here:

Poem and link to video included below: Midnight Mourning – Kindle edition by Martin, Tyler R., Wolffer, Katie. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

Lonely Dog

I stand confused in the mayhem,
Lost in the modern haze,
Where the artists stick to standards
And drown in the modern craze,
But I won’t believe their shit is gold
So I’m a lonely dog, shaking in the cold.

I will not judge your poetry
By its social justice score,
I don’t care for your politics
And your social causes bore.
So since I won’t believe your shit is gold,
I’m a lonely dog, shaking in the cold.

I will not watch my language,
I’m sorry if my words offend,
But my art trumps your feelings,
I don’t care and I won’t bend.
So since I won’t admit your shit is gold,
I’m a lonely dog, shaking in the cold.

I might be the pariah of my peers,
But then again, I suppose whose to blame?
They, who avoid the disgrace of outcasts,
Or I, immune to such shame?
I won’t believe their shit is gold
So I’m a lonely dog, shaking in the cold.

Much Too Busy Today

Tyler R. Martin

The world is bustling and busy today
The streets buzz with movement like
Small bees blindly peppering the hive
Of a barren black asphalt honeycomb
Upon which all the bees do call home

Yesterday the world was bustling and busy
Planes did glide like great ivory kites in air
Trapped unable to break the bonds of nature
Attached by gravitational strings to the ground
Forever destined to exhaust and to return down

Tomorrow the world will likely be bustling and busy
The highways will tremble with innumerable commuters
Who will crawl single file to their respective ant hills
Bearing with them the many fruits of their daily labor
And adorning their ant hills to compete with their neighbor

There are so many poems unfinished today
So so many words I have not yet spoke
So many paragraphs in prose not yet wrote
So much half written wording fumbled in dismay
Well I guess the world was bustling and busy today

My Mortal Dread in Prose

Tyler R. Martin

There was once a time I felt I was the center of
All the turbulence descending down from God above,
For it had been his wicked world which left me marred
And if any love in this scarred world had once existed
Then from this feeling I would most certainly be barred.
For when the sun beat down so lovingly from heaven
It would be only I who lie charred black when it set
And if you told me I was paranoid and hopeless,
I would say, “don’t forget: riddled with regret”.

But now I realize that I am not alone in this,
No living soul has ever wished off Judas’s Kiss
And, yet, still we are all stark alone in how we suffer
The lives of men maintain no pattern, rhyme or reason
So, therefore, each breath is nothing but a fleeting buffer.
For each year marks a dawn of a deeper darker winter
And each winter leaves a mortal man far more froze,
If you tell me that the storm is simply pointless to defy
Then I’ll just decry this mortal dread in prose.

The War of Life

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

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!

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

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.

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.